


Boss Bitch

by m1573



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Age Difference, Airplane Sex, Body Image, Eating Disorders, Exhibitionism, F/M, Femdom, Hospital Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Light Sadism, Marijuana, Mentor/Protégé, Multiple Orgasms, Needles, Oral Sex, Pegging, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Queer Themes, Reader-Insert, Sibling Incest, Slurs, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8495194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m1573/pseuds/m1573
Summary: Quattro loses his virginity to you, an androgynous and coolly dominant older female professional. As seen on Pastebin!





	1. God Has Forsaken You

**Author's Note:**

> BETHANY: "We have a very specific vision for _Vag._ Sure, there are women's magaiznes. Yes, there are even feminist women's magazines. But there were no magazines... for _us._ "  
> MEGHAN: "Um, like... for you three specifically?"  
> FENNEL: "Like: **_us._** "  
> \-- _Vag Magazine_ , [episode 1](https://vimeo.com/15931503)

You're a financially stable adult with a great job and extravagant, comprehensive insurance plans. Quattro is nineteen and totally legal and you are both eating catered spring rolls at a party for successful people who are secretly horrible inside.

You know he's staring at you. People have been staring at you since you were 12 because they knew you were a fucking queer, because you looked like a dude in the girls' locker room, because your haircut sucked tragically, because your haircut sucked triumphantly, or because you couldn't seem to shake off the periodic urge to wear gigantic men's clothes that made you look bigger and more intimidating like some kind of threat-displaying bird-dyke. Luckily you have never given a fuck about any of this, you've cleaned yourself up to professional-dyke level in the last few years, and furthermore everyone likes you because you're a nice goddamn person (on the outside). Most dudes who fuck women aren't into women like you, which is fine because who cares, there are other genders. But OK, this little freak is interested. Or just morbidly fascinated.

You remember teens like this from high school. They never interested you then, but in hindsight you're kind of interested in the idea of fucking one. Or just fucking with one. Either way, you've charmed everybody you've met tonight and done all the networking you feel like doing, and all your immediate colleagues have gone home, so you might as well go talk to this little shit who keeps giving you the glance.

You can tell from a mile away that this blond bitch is a piece of trash stranded among his professional superiors, and you can kind of relate to the horrible way he chooses to present himself. Why is he even here? What does he do? He's wearing knee-high boots to a professional mixer. He's drunk off two drinks. Likely wearing a men's corset under his period clothes. His scene haircut needs to die in a fire. His business card is in a goth font unironically. He's probably tumblr famous. His face is ready to come unhinged at any second. You're going in.

He's put his tiny snack plate down and moved into the corner. Crimson orbs flash. You walk over to him.

"Nice crimson orbs," you say.

"I know, right? I kind of like terrariums—" He turns around too fast and accidentally knocks one of the decorative orbs to the ground with his giant scene hair. "FUCK!!!"

"I'm [y/n]," you say, extending your hand. He looks at the shards of red glass on the floor and then back to you and then gives you a pathetic dead fish handshake. Your handshakes are firm and powerful. Men do not fuck with your firm handshakes. The social pecking order is established. You are boss bitch.

"I'm Quattro. Sorry about freaking out for a second there. I never usually do that." His face is twitching a lot. "Would you be one of my fans, by any chance?"

"I literally have no idea who you are."

"Haha... I don't know anybody here, either."

"I know a bunch of these people. I'm on LinkedIn."

"What is that? I use Snapchat."

"I'm old and I don't know what that is."

Some nervous laughter. Yeah, make no mistake, the sparks are flying here. He definitely wasn't just rubbernecking, he's legit curious about you. Why? Probably because you're the only soft butch in the room wearing men's cologne and a tie with a clip, duh. You'd feel smug, but you're so over that other girls/me bullshit. He wants to know what you're about. You describe your job to him in three sentences or less. You exude relaxed professionalism.

"If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?" he asks.

"[Your age between 20 and 100]"

"Wow, haha, I hope you don't mind me saying, you look so young."

You don't give a shit if your age shows, but you know what he's trying to do, so you thank him coolly. You ask him how old he is. He's 19. You don't mention that he looks older than that, because you don't mean it as a compliment.

He tells you he's famous. He plays cards really well or some shit. He's at this mixer because he's not as famous as he used to be and wants to get an ad deal. He had an agent, but they got in a fight last month. Things have been hard. His family's rich or something, but most of his inherited assets are in a fund and his older brother has warned him to let them accrue for retirement and not spend them on designer brands and international flights or he's going to have his ass. He ignored older brother and went to Puerto Vallarta for spring break, and older brother wouldn't speak to him for two weeks. He loves his fans. They're such wonderful people. They mean so much to him. Wow. Me me me me me.

You let him talk for a while to discharge nervous energy. The genteel expression on his face is cracking into something monstrous as he realizes his narcissistic prattling isn't getting him anywhere, and your stoic response is only making you more mysterious, powerful, and desirable. You can tell his mommy-issues-having ass wants to get right to the fucking. You can also tell he's terrified of boxing outside his weight class with questions like _so are you an exclusive lesbian_ or _how does a younger guy make the first move._ Luckily for him, you're impossible to offend. He's reached the limits of his game, while you haven't even begun to play.

Unfortunately just as the moment is nigh for you to make your gambit, his phone rings (his ringtone is some awful scenester song about sexting) and he has to answer it "QUINTON WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME, I'VE TOLD YOU A MILLION TIMES, JUST TEXT ME, WE DON'T CALL EACH OTHER ON THE PHONE ANYMORE. I don’t care about the Lady Gaga song! That was in 2009. I know, she's great, but you need to stop."

This sad situation is only becoming more fuckable by the second. But right now, you're going to pull a boss bitch move by writing your number on one of your business cards (they have rounded corners) and handing it to him while he's on the phone, then walking away. You walk all the way across the room. You think, what I just did was smooth and badass. You think for an additional 2.5 seconds. Then you turn and walk quickly out of the room. You walk down three flights of stairs and out into the parking lot. You get in your decent car. You put in your favorite CD because you're old and you still listen to CDs. You drive home. You get into your pajamas and lie on top of your bed covers. You think about Quattro's fucking face for half a second and you want to spontaneously combust because he's so ugly. You think, I should definitely kill myself for trying to fuck this artificial sack of feces. You get up and stand in front of the mirror. You don't own a full-length mirror. You have to look at your face in a shitty magnifying mirror duct taped to the back of a door. You look deep into your own magnified pores and the nasty wet sheen on your teeth and gums. You think, no. I'm amazing. What I'm seeing is perfect. I am the best fucking shit ever.

* * *

OK, so he texted you, because of course he did, he's a thirsty little bitch. He wants to meet up to "discuss the job market" at 4:30 on a Tuesday. That's cute, you have work until 6. Has this kid ever even had a real job? You grab dinner at the sort-of-fancy Indian restaurant a few blocks from your office. You tell him you're picking up the tab, just so he understands the situation here. As you expected, he makes feeble, ceremonial protests and then orders the most expensive thing on the menu.

You ask him what he wants to know about the job market. He clearly doesn't know what "the job market" means and says he wants to make his image more attractive to advertisers. He wants to get an endorsement deal. You explain to him in plain terms that if he wants to bill himself as a groundbreaking style icon, he needs to stop looking like a male Avril Lavigne stumbling after the aesthetic of 14-year-old Victorian pastel goths. He gets defensive and compares himself to several recently deceased 80s music legends. You tell him he'd better shut up and put more chicken tandoori in his mouth.

His voice goes down a half-octave and some of his charm dissolves. He claims to be an artist, and tries to mansplain to you that celebrity is the art medium of the 21st century. You tell him yeah, you read that in a _Newsweek_ article eight years ago, and in the meantime, our naïve society is being strangled like an endangered cormorant by two-bit, fame-hungry artists littering this earth like so many plastic six-pack holders. He gets standoffish and quiet. You tell him you're being frank with him because you want to help him, which you both know is bullshit. He's beyond help.

You ask him what he wants to get out of this meeting. He mumbles something about looking for a professional mentor. You schedule another dinner next week. And the one after that. You talk less about business each time. He lives to talk about himself and can't stop. The more he tries to present a polished gentleman, the more he reveals a spoiled narcissist—he has only a tenuous rein on his own lust for attention, and he wants a powerful woman to fuck him really bad. It would confirm his worth. Middle child with daddy issues. He's apparently got a sadistic streak, too. He tries to hide it, but the way he acts out, it's obvious—the id is strong. Still, sadism always has its flipside. You ought to know, masochist that you are for wining and dining this insufferable trust fund brat. He's like a train wreck that you can't look away from. Holy shit, you realize. You actually feel something for him. Buried deep in your stone heart is a flame of tenderness that manifests in feelings of supreme hatred and revulsion and the desire to see this stupid little fuck's life ruined so he'll maybe someday stop being such a miserable carcass of a human being.

You've kept him on ice for long enough. You turn up your flirtation from zero to a casual two. Then you turn it back down to one because he's all over you, sending thirsty texts laden with emoji. Fine. You meet at the restaurant again. From the moment you sit down in your usual low-lit booth towards the back, he's glowing with fondness. You realize, long after you should have, that this pathetic piece of work is a virgin. Obviously! Who would want to fuck him? But it's Friday and guess what, you're in a chill mood.

You invite him to sit next to you in the booth. You can hear how dry his throat is when he swallows. He slides in next to you and he's palpably sweating. Gross. OK, now you're squeezing hands and he's leaning on you. You put your hand on his leg. He's leaning more. He's practically in your lap now. OK, he's in your lap now. Half of it.

"Quattro, why are you here?"

He makes a face that he thinks is sexy but it actually just makes you want to die. "Why are _you_ here?" he says in a low, growly, awful voice.

Even though he's been in the public eye for four years and legal for two, you're probably the only bitch in the world who could come within 10 yards of this horrible manchild without immolating yourself in disgust. You lean in close and whisper in his ear.

"I'M HERE TO FUCK UP THE FUN."

He nods sagely, reaches across the table for his phone, pulls up "Fuck Up the Fun" by Azealia Banks and plays it at low volume. OK, looks like you're on the same page. Time to get the check.

* * *

He's sitting in the passenger seat of your car trying to pretend he isn't hard already. God damnit. It'll take twenty minutes to get home. His cross-legged fidgeting is pretty cute, but making him too uncomfortable before you've even had the chance to get started probably isn't a good idea.

"Pick a CD." You throw the book at him. He picks an older Against Me! album. Great choice, but of course, he couldn't go wrong. That's how this shit will work. No matter how valiantly he tries to ruin this, you will make sure that you both have a good fucking time getting laid tonight, Satan fucking help you.

He shuts up for most of the trip. You make small talk. He seems more nervous by the second.

"Look, I've never done this before," he says finally.

"I'm shocked."

He doesn't realize you're being sarcastic. "No, I'm serious. I know I have a lot of fans... but I've just never... I mean, I have so much respect for them, you know, and I'd never—"

"Yeah, you'd never. You don't even respect yourself."

Really quiet.

You stop at a red light and look at him. "You don't respect me, either."

"Of course I do, [y/n]—!"

You laugh. "No, you don't. But don't worry—I'm gonna make you."

* * *

He's on your bed now, with his coat and stupid vest off, and his shirt unbuttoned. He's working on the belt when you grab him and kiss him. He tenses up all over. You let go for a minute.

"It's OK... you don't need to be gentle," he says.

You weren't going to. You push him roughly onto his back and climb on top of him. You pull him out of the rest of his clothes except for his underwear. You kiss him ravenously across his collar and chest, and put your hand on his crotch. His cock is twitching beneath his briefs. He squirms and moans, tilting into your hand.

You look dead into his eyes. "You want some coffee or something?"

"Don't tease me," he whines.

"You're good? You want a Red Bull?"

"Just fuck me...!"

"Quattro, I'm gonna end your fuckin life." You grab his longer earlock and his shorter earlock and tie them under his chin like you're tying a child's bonnet. You pat his cheek. "Get ready to die."

"What the fuck?!" He scoots away from you a little. "Don't fucking joke about that! Are you some kind serial murderer?!"

You pinch his waistband. "No. But if I'm wrong, and you're not desperate to get your dick wrecked right now, you gotta tell me. I'll stop, because I'm not a fucking rapist."

He grits his teeth. "No, I want this."

"Like really bad?"

"The worst."

"How bad."

"What?"

"Tell me how bad you want your professional mentor to destroy your professionally worthless, obsequious ass right now."

"Pretty darn fucking bad, OK!!"

His face is so contorted, it's awful. Holy shit, you can't even look at it.

"OK, your face is horrifying. Turn around."

"What?"

You sit behind him, straddling his body, one hand reaching into his briefs and the other one caressing his bare skin. He makes a few gruff sounds and reclines into your chest a little. His legs jolt as you stroke him. After about six seconds of this, he balls the duvet in his fist and screams your name. You stop.

"Are you gonna come?" Your hand is dripping with precum, but no ejaculate yet.

"Yes—!"

"That was six goddamn seconds."

"Oh my god, you're so cruel. Just finish me."

"This is _foreplay_ , you slut."

Wow, he really is a slut. He won't stop with the writhing and moaning, pressing your hand back onto his dick. You'd think you'd been working him for ten minutes. You wipe your hand on his hair. "I'm gonna go get something."

You leave him on the bed for about three minutes. When you come back, you find him lying on his back, still hard and miserable with the discomfort. You knew he wouldn't have the nerve to finish himself off. He wants this too bad. He looks at you with disbelief and disgust.

"A fucking freezepop?"

You finish the rest of the fucking freezepop.

His stupid, hormone-addled brain puts two and two together. "Oh, you're gonna—"

You touch him with really cold hands.

He yells and rolls from side to side on the mattress. "Stop—!"

You stop.

He's blushing hard. "OK, wait, do it again."

You run both freezing hands and tongue over his skin. His briefs are wet with precum.

"Don't stop this time," he gasps.

"What? I'm not even touching your junk. Are you about to—" He cups a hand over his mouth and throws his head back in anticipation and you pull away from him in disgust. "God fucking damnit, Quattro!"

"I said 'don't stop'—! Why do you hate me?"

"You were gonna come from just that? Jesus! I'd better not breathe too hard on you!"

Something lights up in his eyes. "Don't taunt me like this, [y/n!] Or I swear to god—" He whips around grabs your wrist. "—I'll take what I want from you."

You don't bat an eye. "Sit your ass down."

He narrows his eyes at you and whispers in a poison tone, "I won't be denied."

"Jesus H. Christ," you whisper to the god who has forsaken you.

He lets go of your wrist and leans toward you in a way that he must think is seductive, but it just looks weird and bad. "I want you to claim me," he whispers. "I want to be all yours." His needy angle is just as pathetic.

"Look, if you're that keen on losing your virginity to a pair of cold hands on your tits, I'll happily oblige. I just figured you'd want this mystical experience to last longer than skipping a YouTube ad."

Maybe with the phrase _YouTube ad_ you've unlocked the millennial brain, because he seems to be processing your logic. "Oh my god, wait, you're right. A handjob doesn't even count." He rips his underwear off in a hurry. "Thank god you stopped me! We have to do the real thing."

You really don't want to look in his face, it's gone completely asymmetrical and it's way too scary. "What, you weren't into the reacharound?"

"That's not even sex!"

"Have you ever gotten a handjob before?"

"Not...exactly."

"Do you know what it is called when two people with vaginas use their fingers to bring each other to orgasm?"

"Um.... hot?"

"It is called sex, you stupid fucking chode."

"But for _real_ sex, there needs to be penetration...!"

You flip him forcefully onto his stomach and grip the flesh of his backside, like a mother cat grabbing a kitten by its scruff. You grab his ass scruff.

"All right, don't say I didn't fucking deliver."

He looks over his shoulder at you and laughs. "You're not fucking serious." You return his gaze, stone cold. The color starts to drain from his face.

Of course you have the equipment for the occasion. You throw him some lube, take your pants off, step into the harness, and slip a condom on the business end. Then you put your pants back on, to kind of make a point.

"You ready?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Prep yourself."

"This is kind of gay."

You just fucking look at him. What does he take you for?

"You can say no, you know."

He swallows. He doesn't want to say no. Oh no, he wants it bad. But this is all a little too much for him. He's a virgin, after all.

You sigh. "Do you want to be on your back, your side, or your stomach?"

"My back, I guess..."

You will survive this somehow.

Quattro rolls over and sighs, looking embarrassed. "Look, I've never told anybody this, but I'm not... opposed to the anal thing. I mean, I... like boys, too. But I've always wanted to do it with a girl. Only, I thought it would be with, like, a more normal girl."

"Explain."

"Fuck, I didn't mean that. Wow, it came out wrong."

"I don't give a shit. I just wanna hear you say exactly what we both know you're thinking."

He's getting defensive. "Well, I figured she'd be younger than me, and really pretty, and made-up, and cute, and smell like rose water or something and not like... fucking Old Spice!? Why do you smell like Old Spice?!?"

"Because it turns women on."

"Oh my god, [y/n]. Just be honest, you're a total lesbian. You don't even like me."

"Quattro, although you nauseate me every second you are in my presence, I unfortunately, genuinely want to fuck your brains out."

He didn't hear you say that. He wouldn't even have cared if you'd said guilty as charged. It's always about him. "I figured when I lost my virginity to a girl, we'd both be kind of nervous, but she'd be more obvious about it, and like, want me to go slow, and it would hurt her at first, or maybe she'd want me to come on her face or something. But..." He pauses.

"But?"

"I've realized I actually want to be with someone older and more experienced. It just feels right, and easier. I don't know why. All I know is, I want this really bad, and I'm basically super lonely and I'm going to die and I think about my mortality all the time, and I cry when I'm alone and I tried to write a poem about it but the poem sucked and I tore it up, and nothing's OK and I hate everyone around me, everything's so shallow and fake, and I thought about you when I jerked off, and I went for a walk just to feel sad, and..."

Here we fucking go.

"I used to think I was gonna be somebody, but then I realized fame is empty and people don't know the real you, and I just wanted someone to see the real me, the real me that's kind and passionate and yearning, the real me that has so much love and fanservice to give. I just want to be worshipped. Everybody wants that, right? I just want to be treated like a god. I want to come home at the end of the day to being perfect and having a perfect relationship and knowing my haters are jealous of me. You see the real me, don't you?"

You've had a clearer view of the "real Quattro" than Quattro himself for several weeks now. Anyone could spot it, and you don't know much about card game culture, but in all likelihood, everyone has already seen it. He's so immune to self-awareness, it actually makes your skin crawl. You're standing here in a strap-on, waiting patiently like an Amish buggy parked outside of fucking Wal-Mart, while this world-weary teen drags himself up the hill of the realization that adults must wipe their own asses.

"Quattro, am I putting this silicone dick in you, or not?"

He sets his jaw. "Do it. I've waited my whole life for this."

And it'll probably be over in thirty seconds. But OK. Yeah. You do it. You spread his legs, stick your fingers inside of him, get him used to the unfamiliar sensation of having another human's reality impressed upon the bubble of his tight narcissistic ass. Yeah, how's that for a metaphor? He groans and squirms at first but settles down pretty fast. Then you put your dick in him. It's not that thick. He can handle it. Once it's good and in, you fuck the shit out of him. You lean over him and really nail his prostate because you're fucking adept at this. You eviscerate that shit. Wow, he yells a lot. He needs to stop yelling, the neighbors are going to be annoyed. You ask him if you're hurting him, but he just wraps his legs around your hips and demands more. OK, fine. You redouble your efforts. He's writhing in pleasure, the moaning has become varied and expressive, and you can practically see the stars in his eyes. Wow, you think for a second, he actually looks kind of beautiful like this, and then you hate God and your own soul. Anyway, you make him come. Really hard, thanks to the edging you practiced earlier in an unplanned kind of way. Wiping the cum off his belly, he gasps, "I love you, [y/n!] I love you—! You're the moon and the stars to me," and you just fucking shake your head because it's obvious he'd say shit like this to anyone who gave him the time of day, and if you hadn't just had five white-hot consecutive orgasms of your own, you'd tell him to go fuck off and die before he gives the whole world mange by existing in it.

You pull out of him and peel off the lube-soaked condom. Wow. You did it. Congratulations, [y/n]. You fucked the Victorian scene teen and can now march proudly into your grave. Quattro rolls over on the mattress and crawls toward the pillow, exhausted. You want to tell him to go clean up in the bathroom for god's sake, is he an animal, but you don't have the heart. You wash up instead, put your pajamas on, crawl into bed, take out your Kindle and pull up page 431 of Thomas Piketty's 700-page book _Capital in the Twenty-First Century_ because you hate yourself.

You think Quattro's asleep, but then he rolls over and fucking snuggles his face into your collar and you actually feel guilty. Then he opens his mouth and asks if he can borrow some pajamas and you swear for a second you actually see the angel of death on the ceiling. You throw him a pair of men's boxers and a t-shirt from the 2012 Michigan Womyn's Music Festival which you're kind of embarrassed to own now because of the festival's transphobic politics coming to light, but you know what, it's just an old T-shirt, fuck it, life is messy.

"Are we doing dinner next week?" he mumbles into your neck.

Yeah. Sure. Until you get that endorsement deal, you rotten slut. Does he think you're a couple now? He couldn't be more mistaken. What should you say to him? Should you let him down? The answer is yes. This is the correct time to make him understand the situation. But guess what. You don't, because having this B-list card shark’s warm body next to you feels great. You can manipulate him and his unquenchable thirst for approval as easily as a puppet. You're practically salivating in dreaded anticipation of his next atrocious performance. Surprise! You're a narcissist, too... as if you didn't already know. You used to be just like him, and one day, he'll be just like you, unless you can manage to squeeze it all out of him first.

So you give him a nice little kiss, right on that nasty facial scar you still haven't asked about and he weirdly hasn't talked about, either. (What's up with that?) He makes a cute humming sound (sweet Jesus) and wraps one arm around you. You resist the urge to have an aneurysm. You're the boss bitch. You're in control. Too bad your heart is fluttering with tender, benevolent feelings. But you'll survive, because you're the shit.


	2. Fortune 500

It's 1:15 in the morning on a Tuesday. You're enjoying your second pass through a mountain of Chinese takeout, browsing Autostraddle, eyeing the women's basketball recap on the news, putting off an RSVP to your coworker's baby shower. You get an email from your landlord, assuring all tenants that the building's trash compactor will be serviced by the same repair company that delivered litigable results in last year's deleading debacle. Fantastic. Your phone buzzes. A bisexual friend has sent you a photo of a popular bisexual actress posing next to an owl. There is an irrepressible expression of joy on the actress's face. You don't know how to feel about this. You type _lmao nice._ You start to feel lmao nice. You start to think everything is pretty lmao nice right now, and you think back on that sex from last week, and you think, _LMAO! Nice!_ Then a man with a deflated face appears on television to explain that while 85% of the country fears immigrants, and 53% wishes they would go back to where they came from, only 14% avows a profound and active loathing—only 14%, people! and you smile to yourself as you idly wish that everything would die.

You need to get back under the fun glow, [y/n]! You're not some crabby old curmudgeon, for god's sake—you're still young, and you're vibrant! How many women over [your age rounded down to the last decade] are bringing your kind of game? When was the last time any of your friends fucked a hideous 19-year-old bottom-tier celebrity? Certainly never, because—well, why? Because they have self-respect? Of course not. Nobody has any self-respect. _Because you're not like other girls,_ Satan's voice croons in your ear. _You're better than other girls. You're a straight shooter. You don't play games._

You get a text from Quattro. _Hey, you up?_

You begin to play games. _Heading to bed. What's up?_

_Nothing much ;) just horny_

You cringe and mull your next move. He messages again:

_Wanna see a photo of my dick?_

OK, game over. _Already seen it. I don't need a photo._

_This one's for your personal archive ;))_

_The answer is no._

_Come onnn ;P You know you wanna_

_If you send me a photo of your dick, I will send you a photo of a used tampon._

_Wtf? Why are you being so mean?_

_I will see you at the restaurant at our usual time. There will be no unsolicited bullshit between now and then. Good night._

Are you punishing him? Sure. In your defense, he looks like a goat's face grafted onto a human skull. He's so asymmetrical, it feels like a piece of broken glass is stuck in your soul. Of course, you did this to yourself. You made this happen. And now you can either get closer to this gratuitous cumstain of a human being, or you can floor it in reverse—unless you can think of a third option.

There's that inkling, the one that came to you in your post-coital reckoning: what's the deal with the scar, anyway? It's hardly the worst facet of Quattro's repulsive visage, but it did strike you at your first meeting. Then you went and forgot about it because you have basic tact. You could just ask him—but then again, it's probably documented.

You reach for your laptop. You google "quattro arclight scar." A fan wiki page (oh, dear lord) explains that he was in a freak accident at age 16, a fire that started in a trash chute. Great, you think to yourself. You bag up the empty takeout boxes and haul them to a disposal hatch now choked with unprocessed garbage, much like your love life. Better knock on wood for this combustible situation. A freak accident—it would be the perfect comeuppance for a freak like you.

You have a new message. It's a photo of a dick, nestled warm and snug in the triple-cheese layers of a large slice of supreme pizza. The caption is "extra sausage." This basic bitch... seriously.

* * *

All right, so what's immediately obvious is that your bitch has upped his dress game. He's got a sharp tweed jacket on, flashing some fancy cufflinks, thick gold watch, yellow silk tie with a tack. He slips out of the jacket, slides into the booth, and cocks his wrist at you, showing off the timepiece. It's Versace. What does he want, a round of applause? You're wearing discount penny loafers and a Topman suit you bought used off eBay.

"You like it?" he says, admiring the watch. "Just got it. It's real, gold-plated."

You swish the water in your glass. "Looks good. But you know..." You gesture with your chin, implicating his whole outfit. "The tie is too wide for those slim lapels."

He laughs extravagantly. "Didn't know we had a dress code!"

"It's just free advice," you say. "Take it from a dyke."

He stares at you for a minute, clearly struggling with this. The waitress takes your orders. Quattro fixes his hair and taps nervously on the menu.

"Well... I got you something, too." He slides a small black box across the table. "Open it."

It's a goddamn—Jesus Christ. It takes you a minute to figure out that you're looking at a vintage collar bar, probably solid gold. The two enormous pins are ruby-eyed lion heads, facing each other. They're joined by a pair of thick chains. As a gift, it's thoughtful; as an object, it's tasteless. This thing is so ostentatious, you'd believe it was owned by Louis XIV. Quattro has a shit-eating grin on his face. This won't do. Slutty texts are one thing, but if he thinks he's poised to recast your affiliation—if he thinks he's going to doff the proverbial fedora—you'll shut this shit down faster than a suburban Airbnb.

"Quattro, what exactly are you trying to prove to me?"

"Well," he says, voice dripping with magnanimity, "I want to treat you right."

"Yeah, stop right there." You seize his wrist as his hand ambles toward yours. You look him dead in the eyes. "You think this is a courtship? Is that what you think?"

"You don't have to worry," he coos. "I've got piles of cash, doll. Oceans and rivers of—"

"Cut the shit. You came to me on the _hunt_ for cash. You told me you needed a mentor to whip you into shape before you drained your assets. And what's changed?" You lower your voice. "You got some silicone rammed up your ass, and now you want to pretend you're in a De Beers ad." His face twitches, but you go on. You're going scorched earth. "Grow up. You won't find true love with the first rando who gives you an orgasm. And you're not gonna be my little boyfriend, so sit with that, _doll._ "

Quattro looks—devastated isn't the right word. He looks like a kid about to have a tantrum.

"Well, I'm _sorry_ for being a gentleman," he says. "Sorry for wasting your precious time—!"

"Sorry for breaking your little doll heart."

Oh, he _hates_ that. "Don't flatter yourself!" His eyes are going wild. Buckle up, the face has been activated. "Like you're so innocent! Gonna lead me on and then act like it was nothing, huh? Just a romp in the woods for you?"

"What did you think it was?"

"You used me, you stuck-up bitch!"

"You wanted to be used. Because you're useless." Fuck, a chill just ran down your spine. Look at you go! You are _destroying_ this kid, and it feels great. There's something about crushing a manchild's hopes and dreams, something special, something so incredibly... erotic? But hold on to that thought—the two of you are causing quite a stir in the restaurant. Quattro's meltdown is increasing in volume, his yelps punctuated with blows to the tabletop, and you can hear a few patrons sucking their breath in gleeful schadenfreude as the waitress appears with a plate of samosas.

"Quinton was _right,_ " he shouts, "women are _meddling sluts—_ " a tiny ramekin of tamarind chutney flies off the table, the waitress recoils instinctively like she's in bullet time, you look over at the waitress, oh? The waitress is cute, you slip the waitress an apologetic cash tip and ask for the check. The waitress has several piercings. The waitress might be queer. Quattro is losing it. He's still ranting, but now he's cramming samosas into his mouth at the same time. Damn it, there were four samosas there a second ago! Bits of potato are falling from his lips. He can't really talk around such a huge mouthful, but he sure is trying. You can only imagine the vitriol trapped behind a dense mass of mooched appetizers. If he's hoping to stir any regret in you—well, you probably should have kicked him in the teeth _after_ eating your fill. Now you'll go home like a chump and order a pizza (but make it vegetarian—it's too soon).

"You know what?" he chokes out after gulping everything down with a full glass of water. "You don't _deserve_ a guy like me. I'm _way_ out of your league."

A guy like what, exactly? One who wears his tie too thick, stuffs his mouth too full, and claims he's waited his whole life to take it up the ass? You're doing the right thing, you tell yourself as he storms out of the restaurant, forgetting his jacket in the heat of the moment. No good could have sprung from your unholy alliance... dyke and twink, teacher and pupil, a showdown of egotistical frauds. Where could the road lead but to ruin? You raise your glass to Quattro. So long, slut. You'll give his tweed jacket a good home.

* * *

Two hours later, the real ugliness begins.

_You were right about me, [y/n]. I'm useless._

You're on a crowded train right now and all screens are public. You're pressed up against an older gentleman who's responding to a message from a contact named Twin #2. _I said it before, I don't like giving blowjobs,_ Twin #2 opines. _What are you saying? I don't understand,_ your neighbor is typing. Yes, you think, this world is fraught with tragic misunderstandings.

 _It was my fault for getting invested,_ Quattro goes on. _It was my fault for thinking you saw something in me and that you cared about me, like you said you did._

What statement could he possibly be referring to?

_You're the only one who knows what's behind my mask, my glamorous façade... I thought what we had was special. I just wanted to be close to somebody but I guess that can't happen for me. I hope you'll be happier with someone else. Wow, I hate myself so much! Do you have any idea what that feels like? You probably have no idea._

No idea at all, none.

_I wonder if you know what it meant to me when we made love. How I felt complete for the first time in my nineteen years of life. You're not even reading these messages, I can tell._

They've been coming nonstop for seven minutes.

_For a moment, I thought I had everything. Then it was all ripped away from me. This is the story of my life, [y/n]. You don't know about my past._

Miraculously, his train of thought aborts there, as if the past is too painful to be excavated. Have you finally hit the bedrock of Quattro's ego? Is this alluded history the dormant behemoth too dangerous to awaken, the final truth that guards the seal of his unresolved psyche? Or will 45 minutes of radio silence on your end provide all the incentive he needs to cast every last chip into the pot? You already know the answer.

_I've had a really fucked up life, OK? My home is a mess. I've always been the black sheep. My mom died and my dad never loved me. My brothers exist to make me miserable. The fact that I'm rich, famous, and perfect is the only thing that makes my life worth living._

A lucid thought if there ever was one. He goes on, but it's barely intelligible. You're cutting vegetables for a salad. You've been addicted to brown tomatoes lately. You keep buying these expensive-ass ones that come in a plastic sleeve with a sticker announcing they were named BEST FOOD FOR MEN by _Men's Health_ magazine. Do men need this kind of an excuse to eat a tomato? Do they feel better about themselves when they eat manly food? If you fed Quattro a macho tomato, would he let you fuck him in the ass again? His jacket is still draped over the back of your kitchen chair. You try it on in front of the bathroom mirror. It's a good fit. A little roomy in the shoulders, but you're used to that. You slip your hands into the pockets and pull out—a crumpled receipt? No—it's a triple-cheese pizza coupon. You stare at it for a minute. Your phone continues to buzz. On the back of the coupon, the word LINKEDIN is scribbled.

You check LinkedIn. Sure enough, the fucker has set up a profile. His photo has some kind of gauzy filter on it. His connections include Quinton Arclight (ah, yes: the misogynist), one Rio Kastle (she appears to be an intern, or a teenage troll, as she has endorsed him for "arson" as a skill), and someone from Quinton's professional network whose head resembles an onion. But wait— _wait_. Lord be blessed, Quattro has uploaded a résumé. It's time to see whether your counsel has paid off.

You take a deep breath. OK. This isn't the worst-case scenario. _Some high school._ Jesus Christ. Is this _disappointment_ you're feeling...? You didn't honestly believe he'd pull his act together, did you? Professionally, Quattro is about as self-possessed as a newborn fawn. He's a preteen makeup tutorial artist mooning in front of a webcam. A white boy selling his drug dealer a mixtape. A C-level essay on neon lemon paper.

All right, [y/n]. Give yourself credit—your execution was flawless. You preyed decisively, involved no one else, washed your hands of this affair without hesitation. You've had your fun, but now it's over. Time to put on the Minor Threat discography, do your push-ups, throw some punches at the speed bag. You do these things. You get hopped up on adrenaline. You feel super ripped. You can fuck anything up. You take a cold shower. You're invincible. A bullet would roll right off of you. Death awaits anyone who underestimates your power. You look at your phone. You have 22 unread messages. You don't care. You read a chapter of Tom Miller's _China's Urban Billion,_ and you get hype thinking about the fact that there are 15 million people in Chengdu and 30 million people in Chongqing and every last one of them is kicking ass. You eat a cup of Greek yogurt. You think, if I had some cocaine right now, I would snort it. I would just go for it, I wouldn't even hesitate. You throw away the yogurt cup and decide that no, you wouldn't, because it would be pointless. There's no drug on earth that could enhance your performance. You are already doing your shit at an unbeatable level. You are a hot knife in the butter of existence. Driven, Capable, adn Detail-Oriented.

God damnit. You look at the résumé again and you wonder, you just wonder, where is he truly headed? What is the real, true outcome for this basket case, this lukewarm piece of ass? Of course it's fun to watch him eat his own shit, but you do care a little, right? Isn't this what caring looks like? Let's be real, he's an utterly revolting, unlovable human being—no one else is going to help him. You're the lone soul in a posture of benevolence. And it just so happens that you're also the most powerful being on earth. What could hurt you? Certainly not this little cretin.

You look out your window. It's a new moon. God's eye is shut and the time is nigh for mischief. Quattro's last message to you was a twelve-second video of a porcelain doll gazing bleakly at a windowpane, reflected raindrops casting runny shadows on her face.

Don't do this, you idiot. Don't get involved.

* * *

Well, for all his whining and bitching, he refused to meet with you. Said he was taking a provisional vow of silence and isolation. That little whore. Unfortunately for him, his dick pic was geotagged. So now you're outside his apartment.

"Apartment" would be an understatement. It's a penthouse on top of a glittering new 22-story building. There's no name listed for the crowning suite, just a weird four-cornered emblem, but you're sure. The concierge has just answered the bell. You didn't really have a plan for this. You ask for Mr. Arclight. The concierge asks if you're the interior designer. Of course you're the interior designer. You are welcomed in and shown the private elevator. It occurs to you that you could be arrested today, but the elevator is framed by a living wall of green foliage and you get in it and it's fucking mahogany so whatever.

The doors open and you follow a thin corridor to the suite's entrance. Someone answers your knock, but it isn't Quattro. It must be one of his brothers, presumably the younger one. This third party quickly realizes you aren't the interior designer, but not before you talk your way past him, into the apartment, through several rooms, up the stairs, goodbye.

You locate your target shirtless and perspiring, in brutal combat with an elliptical, singing breathlessly to "Hungry Like the Wolf" as the chorus pumps from a sweet sound system. You shout Quattro's name at him until he hears you. He hits himself in the face with the bar of the elliptical. Then he absolutely loses it.

"Why in the _living fuck_ are you here?!"

"Like you don't know."

"I _don't_ need your help with the résumé. I told you, I'm spiritually detoxing right now."

"This isn't for your sake. This—" and you crack open the slim black briefcase you brought with you like a professional (you brought it only for the look; it has one single piece of paper in it, which you remove and throw in Quattro's face) "—is so I can look myself in the eye in the goddamn mirror every morning."

Quattro catches the paper. It's a printed copy of the résumé. You've highlighted everything that's wrong with it. You've highlighted every word on the page.

The kid who let you in is now fidgeting in the doorway. Quattro whirls on him. "What the hell is wrong with you? Why'd you let a stranger in?"

"Is this person not... someone you...? Who is this?"

Quattro sets his glare back on you, as if to say yeah, what are we, anyway?

The kid keeps trying. "Your new agent?"

"I'm not fucking hiring a new agent! I told you, I'm still with the old one."

"Did he finally call back?"

"He will call."

"Do you think you might—"

"Will you just stay out of it?"

"Uh... chiropractor?" He's still guessing. "Or is this a massage thing? Do I need to, like... leave you alone in here?" A mincing, apologetic gesture.

"Trey, I swear to god."

Despite the verbal thrashing he's taken, Trey smiles pleasantly and offers you his hand. You shake it and give your name. He asks you your pronouns. What an angel! But Quattro is having none of it. He grabs Trey by the hair.

" _Christ_ , you're an embarrassment! What did I say about asking people that faggy pronoun question?" He glances at you, catching himself. "No, uh, offense."

You look at him stone cold. "Well, none taken."

As Trey protests being forcibly shoved out of the room, you walk over to the sound system and kill the music, then toss Quattro his T-shirt.

"Didn't know you shared your place with your brother."

He sighs. "It's my dad's place. We all live here." He pulls the shirt over his head. It's from Blood on the Dance Floor's 2012 tour. "Honestly, I hate it."

"I can see why. It's a real shithole."

He towels off his hair. "I didn't expect to see you again. At least, not so soon."

"Like I said... you're going to fix something for me." You point to the résumé, now lying on the floor next to a toning wheel and an empty Four Loko can.

He crosses his arms. "Can't I do that later?

"You got something going on?"

"I was gonna watch some shows and do some online shopping. Maybe read a book."

"What are you reading?"

"Dante's _Inferno._ "

"Which circle of hell am I currently standing in?"

He cracks a smile. "The fourth. Avarice. Want to see something?" He leads you into the living room, where he flips the switch on the motorized window shades to reveal a breathtaking view of the city. He waves at the Persian rug under your feet. "That's a genuine Farahan Sarouk carpet. It's over a hundred years old. You wanna guess how much it's worth?" You don't want to guess. He tells you anyway. "Seventeen grand. Go on—sit on the couch. It's a rare design by van der Rohe." You eye the leather sofa. There's nowhere to sit. It's completely obstructed by throw pillows. You stack several of the pillows on a nearby chair, then get cozy with the rest of them. Quattro points to a green stone sculpture on a shelf. "This is an ancient artifact. It's from the Aztecs or something."

"It's Olmec," Trey interjects. "Middle Preclassic, around 900 B.C.E. Our dad brought it back from his travels."

Seriously? Why do they even have this? Shouldn't this object be in a Mexican museum? You stare at the figure. Its mouth is downturned, slightly open in a grimace. Two fists are clenched below its chin. Its face says _Get me the fuck out of here._

"You," a deep and world-weary voice proclaims, "don't know the first thing about Father's belongings. Or about furniture." A new challenger has entered the fray. This must be the dreaded Quinton.

"Oh my," Quattro snarls. "If it isn't his royal highness, Queen Bitchfag himself."

"It's not _van der Rohe_ ," Quinton sighs. "It's _Mies._ "

"That's what I said—!" There's a whining note in Quattro's voice. "Mies _van der Rohe_ , I used his surname."

"Yes, but Mies _is_ his surname. That's what he's called."

"Well, you don't have to get technical!"

"Who is this?" Quinton swishes into the room for a better look at you. He has so much hair, it's incredible. Is it real? "I have an interior designer coming over at 3:00. This is not a good time or place for you to see your shrink."

"She's not my shrink! And don't fucking tell me what to do—you think you run this house? I don't need your prior authorization for every damn thing I do!" Wow, Quattro is livid. This went from zero to sixty in about nine seconds. "How about getting _my_ approval the next time you want to fuck your weird boyfriend in our shower, huh? You flaming queer—do it one more time and see if I don't jerk off into your sock drawer!"

Trey circles the couch to avoid the other two and perches on the edge of a cushion, stirring a cup of tea and avoiding eye contact with his brothers. He gives you a look that tries to convey sympathy, but betrays extreme mortification.

Quinton's stifling, icy aura has been plunging the room temperature since he appeared. "Deflect all you want. But I'm getting tired of listening to a homophobic tirade every time you don't like something that's said to you."

"Well, I'm getting tired of dealing with your prissy bitch moods whenever you haven't gotten enough cock up your ass in the last twelve hours!"

Hold on to your throw pillows. Something magnificent is about to happen, you can feel it.

Quinton brushes his bangs out of his eyes. "You're awfully hung up on my sex life. I wonder what you'd think if I commented on your... proclivities."

"Oh, you got something to say? Say it." Quattro gets right up in his face. "Tell us all what you think about _pussy,_ Quinton. Come right out with it."

Quinton fails to be discreet as he glances at you. "It's absurd," he says, with caution, "that you would reproach me for having insufficient lust for the female form."

"But Quinton," Trey cuts in, "anatomy and gender are not the same—"

"Trey, be quiet."

"Go ahead, Quinton!" Quattro is gleeful, triumphant. "Give us a recap! You had plenty to say about the vagina after a few glasses of Burgundy!"

"I'm in no position to..."

"' _Overrated!_ '" Quattro's wild shriek rattles everything in the room. He can hardly contain himself, shivering with righteous indignation. He has Quinton's words memorized, and looks directly at you as he recites them: "' _A viscous, malodorous orifice, slack and short, poorly conceived in design and function, by all accounts impossible to operate—_ '"

Quinton bluffs an intimidating start toward Quattro, causing Trey to flinch. But Quattro goes the whole nine yards and seizes Quinton by the shirtcollar.

"Hit me, faggot! Go on! Do it!" He cranes his neck and spits in Quinton's face. In shock, Quinton recoils, and Quattro looks at you again expectantly. Is he hoping you'll get involved? No—he's just tattling, in his own pass-agg fratboy way. You wonder whether this gyno-positive white knight has ever seen a live vagina. You wonder what kind of an alliance he thinks he's forged with you against his own family members who still don't know why you're in their apartment. Does he think he's received carte blanche to perform his own internalized homophobia in your presence? Of course he does, and he probably thinks you're willing to pretend right along with him that the cishet "black sheep" of the family wasn't begging for your dick last week. Give this kid an inch and he'll take... well, about six more inches.

Trey is gently apologizing to you for the horrid spectacle playing out behind your five-figure pillow fort. There's no need. You're high right now on an indescribable thrill. This is better than watching a school bus explode at a crowded intersection.

"Your behavior is pathetic," Quinton says. "Disgusting and pathetic. I just hope Father doesn't see you like this."

"Tell him. I don't care!" Quattro seems stung by Quinton's appeal to authority. "What's he gonna do, ground me? I'll get away from you cunts. I'll go to LA. I'll go to the fuckin' Maldives! Who's stopping me?" He redoubles his grip on Quinton's collar, although you're pretty sure Quinton could bat him away with ease.

"Quattro—!" Trey can't keep quiet any longer. "Please, stop this! Remember your self-care and de-escalation tactics!"

"He fucking started it! He fucking starts it every time!"

Don't get up, Trey, you think. That's exactly what he wants you to do. But of course, Trey tries to intervene and becomes the target. Quattro kicks him so hard in the chest, he stumbles over the piano bench and plays a perfect B7 chord, third inversion. You knew Quattro's strategy. So did Jeff Bridges. _He wanted another piece on the board to change the game._ What film was that from? Ah, _Tron: Legacy._ Quattro is both seething and leering. His face looks like a computer glitch in a horror game. He's inviting Trey to suck his dick, no, swallow his cum and rim his asshole, and then slurp the shit right out of it, and then die. Wow. This isn't fucking normal.

"You are out of control!" Quinton yells in Quattro's ear as he struggles to restrain him. "Do you want another intervention?"

"Fuck off! Fuck off, you giant fag! I hate you! I hate you _so much_!"

"Why does it have to be this way?" Trey is crying. "Why do you always shut us out?"

" _Because you are hysterical, unreasonable people!_ " Quattro shrieks.

"I am being so, so gaslit right now!" Trey sobs.

Quinton tries to maneuver his grip on Quattro. "Stop struggling. Stop it! You need to settle down and take some deep breaths."

"You're not Dad! You can't tell me what to do!"

"Like you ever listen to him anyway."

"I'll kill you!"

Final assessment: Quinton Arclight, archetypal effete homosexual maintaining a simulacrum of order in a house rife with upheaval. Obnoxious, yes; abusive, no. Trey: a downtrodden kid trying his best. Source: tumblr. Quattro: spoiled, hellish. Soul: bad. Prognosis: alcohol-poisoned corpse washing up on a beach in the Maldives. Father Arclight: absent. Blame: dubious. Apartment: five stars/twelve throw pillows.

"What is going on in here?"

The person who has just entered the living room is an eight-year-old wearing a metal mask. How many brothers did Quattro say he had, again? Everyone has suddenly gotten very quiet. Something isn't right.

The child notices you. "I didn't know we had company."

Quinton scoffs. "It was news to me, too."

Trey makes an attempt. "[Y/n], this is, um... Vetrix..."

Vetrix? What is that, a prescription drug? The level of tension in the room right now is seriously creeping you out.

Vetrix lets out an unnerving peel of laughter. "Welcome to our home. What brings you here?" All eyes are on you. What is this? They've paused World War III to watch you introduce yourself to their kid brother? Maybe there's something wrong with this kid. Maybe he's dying of cancer. Well, anyway, it doesn't really matter what you say to a child. Time to open your mouth and see what comes out.

"I'm Quattro's life coach," you say. You watch the color drain from Quattro's face as you say it. "Yeah. We've got work to do."

* * *

"[Y/n], wait... wait!"

You're halfway to your car, already fumbling with the keys. You can hear Quattro's Adidas sandals slapping the pavement. You hear " _Fuck!_ " as he loses one sandal. You turn around and watch him retrieve the sandal and hike up his stupid sweatpants.

"What did you think?" he asks.

You raise an eyebrow. "About what?"

He pouts at you. "You met my family. They must have made some kind of an impression, right?"

"Why don't you move out?"

He sighs. "It's not that simple."

"You're making it complicated. Find a neighborhood you like. Contact a realtor, sign a lease. Then tell them you're on your own."

"And let them sit around and talk about me after I'm gone? You don't understand. Even Quinton hasn't moved out."

You shut your briefcase in the trunk of the car. "Then don't, Quattro. It's your funeral."

"Tch. Some life coach you are."

Some life coach, indeed. You stare at him. You stare at his idiotic scene hair coiffed with high-end products, his rich-boy abs showing through his flauntingly tight shirt, his neatly manicured nails, his promiscuous sweatpants already sliding down to reveal the jut of his hipbones. This spoiled harlot is in the prime and glory of his youth, has been raised soaking in wealth, and sincerely believes (he told you this) that the government should subsidize free yearly phone upgrades. He once referred to welfare recipients as "people not on Amazon Prime." He's so profoundly fortunate, and yet so obviously unhappy. It's revolting. But who's the biggest fool in the equation? Yes, it's you—the person who feels sorry for him.

"Is this about my dad...? Because if you want to know—"

"No, I don't want to know! I don't want to know, OK?"

He looks wounded. How cute—deep down, he's actually defensive of his family, despite having sexually threatened and physically assaulted them in front of you.

You try to dial it down a notch. "Look. This whole thing—it was just too much, all right? It's nothing personal. But there are certain things I don't want to know."

Still, there's plenty more you do. Why shouldn't you? You're the boss. And you know exactly what's about to go down. Quattro shuffles against the pavement. The silence of anticipation grows between you. His hands dig into his pockets. He looks like a neighborhood delinquent on trial for chucking a firework in a portable toilet. There's a reason Quattro doesn't realize that the gap between you isn't such a gap after all. There's a reason he doesn't look at your beat-to-shit car and your bad haircut and your 50 hours a week at the office and your bookmark bar full of lifehacks and think to himself that he could do better than chasing some power dyke across a parking lot to try and get laid in his gym clothes, and it would be as simple as hopping back in his private elevator and ordering himself a dessert covered in edible gold. The reason Quattro doesn't do these things is that he's a bitch. His sense of self is wretched and fragile. He wants approval, and he wants it hard, fast, and messy.

"You, uh... you wanna go somewhere?" he asks.

You nod. "Sure. Get in the car."

* * *

You check into a room in a downtown hotel called the Swiss, a fitting name for the neutral territory on which you're about to fuck.

"Do you want me, to um, this time?" he asks.

"What?"

"You did it for me last time, so I could... maybe..."

Oh, he's talking about penetration. Yeah, forget it. You tell him in explicit terms that he is never getting inside you.

"So let me get this straight," he says. "You don't want to have an orgasm?"

That's not the case.

"But you didn't have one last time."

"I had several."

His mouth falls open. "Excuse me?"

This has always been a thing. Once you hit that ceiling, you can pretty much fire these things off in rapid succession. You're a Stakhanovite.

You kiss him forcefully, possessively, folding your arms around him and sliding your hands under his waistband to knead at his backside. He moans with desire and presses himself unabashedly against you, spreading his legs a bit to get closer. It's time to play the music, it's time to light the lights. You push him onto the bed and open up your briefcase's hidden compartment. Of course you came prepared with the dildo—what are you, an idiot? Quattro is too busy peeling his shirt off (with some difficulty) to notice what you're up to until you lob the thing at him. It lands in his lap. He gives you a quizzical look.

"There it is. Your friend."

Quattro stares at the dildo like it's a haunted object that keeps returning to its owner. "You wanna do this a second time?"

"You seemed to enjoy it the first time."

"You sure you wouldn't rather I stick mine in you?"

"I told you, that's not how I do things." He cocks his head but doesn't answer. You can hear the gears whirring in his tiny little brain. "But I'm open to anything else."'

He leans back on his elbows and rubs himself absently through his pants. God, he's disgusting. You can't believe you are fully prepared to pleasure this piece of shit senseless.

"I want," he says, "to be told how good I am."

So that's how it is. Well, you've never been much of an actor. But you didn't get this far in life without learning how to bullshit. You get his pants off and run a hand up his thigh, squeezing gently. "You've been so good," you say. "And I know how badly you want this."

He shivers and tips his head back. "[Y/n]..."

"You're a real prize, Quattro." You turn your attention to his upper body. You lick his tit. Just get right in there and lick it. "So raw. So sensual... so employable."

"It's all I want," he pants, fisting his hand in your hair. "To give everyone... my fanservice..."

"Your service is impeccable." You run your hands across his body, caressing every lithe muscle. "If I could, I'd give you five stars on Yelp." You climb on top of him and press your thigh between his legs. He rolls his hips against you. You can feel him getting hard. "Ah, there you are. That's the kind of enthusiasm and punctuality I'm talking about. Ready to seize opportunities—" (you grab his dick through his underwear, making him gasp) "—and forge connections. But I wonder if you've got what it takes for a leadership role."

"Yes," he moans. "Yes, I can do it."

"Shut up." You shove him back down against the mattress. "Don't interrupt when the boss is complimenting you."

He makes a choked, spitty sound. You hold him down for a few more moments, letting him feel the danger. He's still squirming ever so slightly against you, trying to encourage friction. But he keeps his mouth shut.

"Very good," you say, rewarding him with him a nice long stroke. "You're discerning. Obedient." You lean down and whisper in his ear. " _You're not such a useless little prick after all, are you?_ "

That went straight to his dick. It twitches in your hand. He groans as you pull off his underwear with one hand and grapple with it for a better hold. His free thigh goes up around your back. "More of that," he gasps.

"You want to earn an honest living? " You work him slowly, tantalizingly. "I can tell you do. You're goal-driven. You're hungry for success."

"I'm so hungry," he whines, rutting into your hand. "I want it so bad. Oh, god, give it to me."

"Success doesn't always come quickly."

"I know you love me."

"Do you know that?" You slam him down again. "Think long and hard about whether you really deserve this."

He smirks. "I can't think of a more qualified candidate."

"Quattro, can you take a bit of constructive criticism?"

"Sure, babe."

You feel a surge of power igniting your veins. You look him directly in the face as you begin forcefully jerking him off. "You're a waste of space. You're a terror, a playground bully, a spoiled brat with no talents or redeeming moral qualities. The only thing you're good for is getting _fucked—_ " (you slam your fist down extra hard on the base of his groin) "—and getting _fired._ " Quattro cries out. You grip his dick with urgency and lean over him like a fighter pilot gripping the throttle as your plane takes a nosedive. "Now, tell me why you deserve to finish."

"Because I'm a star," he chokes out, his whole body trembling against yours. "I'm a star and I'm perfect and you're my biggest fan and you _know_ it— _ohhh..._ " You dive for his neck and plant kisses across it, traveling over his collarbone and down his sensitive sides, making him writhe.

"You feel good, you worthless bitch?" You can't help yourself. Despite your sharp words, you can tell he's losing himself in the pleasure you're giving him. Which is giving you a heck of a charge.

"I feel amazing," he shoots back through gritted teeth. "Now suck me off."

You know what? Fine. You whip out a condom, rip it out of the package with your teeth, and wrestle it onto your target. Then, kneeling next to the bed, you grab Quattro by both thighs, sling his legs over your shoulders, and shove his dick in your mouth. You give him some tongue action, a little head movement—but oh, what's this? Suddenly, he's got a tight grip on your skull. He begins thrusting with abandon into your mouth. You push his hands off—this is _your_ show, and he's messing up your rhythm—but he comes right back with even more insistence. His moans of abandon have become gruff and authoritative. They're grunts of determination. You try to pull away and he holds you in place. His jaw-shattering smirk is back. The old sadist is rising to the surface, smelling victory.

"Quattro, get your fucking hands off me."

"Mmm, but you want all of this, don't you?"

"I said let go of me."

"Finish me first, doll."

Not today, bitch. Still jerking yourself off with your other hand, you grab one of his wrists and yank his arm until he's doubled over, face-to-face with you, and then you let him fucking have it.

"Whose slut are you?"

He protests and tries to struggle free.

"I said, whose slut are you?"

Doubt clouds his appalling expression. "I'm yours."

"Who taught you the rules?"

"You did."

"Who gave your wretched ass a good fuck when you needed it?"

"You did...!"

"That's right. Don't you ever forget it." You force him onto his back for the final time. "Without me, you're a stunted has-been beating off in the break room at Hobby Lobby." You hit orgasm #1. "Try and fuck me like that again, and you'll be hitting the showers faster than you can say _de facto dissolution._ " You seize his dick and proceed to annihilate it. He's screaming that he's going to come. You hit orgasm #2. You grab Quattro by his mane of hair and pull him into a ferocious kiss. You feel death's embrace. You are prepared to kill God. Quattro shudders, clings to you with all his might, and then comes with a sustained groan. He lies gasping for breath on the mattress as you seize his jaw between three sticky fingers. "Read my fucking notations. And use the fucking spellcheck," you say, giving his head a little shake before you hop off the bed, smash orgasm #3 to the sight of him flushed and exhausted, step back into your pants, slip on your shoes, throw water on your face, walk out of the room, walk down the hall, hit the button for the elevator, fuck the elevator you're taking the stairs.

You left your briefcase and dildo behind. Let him keep them—it's only fair. You have a feeling you'll see them again. Your phone buzzes. You turn your phone off. It's time to be alone with the reality of what you've done. As you get into your car and glide through the parking gate free of charge for under one hour, you realize that you don't give a shit about anything in the world. You turn on the radio. It's a top 40 song that you don't recognize and you instantly like it. Its glow warms your field of vision. In this dog-eat-dog world, you're the alpha bitch. And Quattro—well, at least he's good company, insofar as he's of the Fortune 500 variety. Now you're driving away and nothing can stop you. No one owns you. You are a liberated woman as you jam to this song that was tailor-made for you, the consumer, according to your carefully pre-cultivated tastes and wishes. You enjoy the feeling of knowing you are off the grid. You enjoy it like a vacation, with the underlying assumption that you will soon return to the natural and default state of being on the grid. You think about Quattro's disgusting face and disgusting life and you know that you are a million times better than him because you know what he doesn't, which is that life is not about escaping the prison of society but becoming its most powerful inmate. You look up at a billboard. A young, heterosexual couple is sharing a triple-cheese pizza. This is freedom and it will never, ever let you go.


	3. The Situation Room

"Sometimes, I really wish I were gay," your coworker announces as the two of you pick through limp cafeteria salads in the break room. Here comes another story about Evan. She's been with this clown for three years. All he ever does is drag her to vestigial frat parties with people he hardly knows, refuse to see her friends, and bemoan the promotion he isn't getting because he doesn't listen to his "pushy" female boss.

"It's never too late to try," you say neutrally.

"I'm sure all the discrimination stuff is no picnic. But you know what I mean, right? At least you get to date _women_. Being straight is so frustrating sometimes."

You tell her you don't blame her for feeling frustrated. It sounds like managing Evan is a second full-time job... gee, if only he'd reciprocate all that hard work. Unfortunately, this is where your coworker always gets stuck. You've never been able to coax her to stop fretting about poor, poor Evan—if only he'd taken his earbuds out during the meeting! Then he wouldn't have been scolded, and his superior wouldn't have brought up his conduct at last year's holiday social, which made him feel bad all over again, which made him angry and less receptive to criticism.

She shrugs sadly. "I think it's just how men are," she says. "They're not always very perceptive."

It's like she sees the numbers, but can't add them up (despite a master's in accounting). Still, your coworker's got a good heart. Better than yours, for sure.

"If you want to know what I think," you say wryly, sipping your [favorite beverage]. "A man who doesn't know his place is useless." She laughs, but you mean it. Any man who wants something from a powerful woman—whether it's sex or a holiday bonus—should be prepared to humble himself beneath her. And any woman who deals with such a man should love her own power above all. She must accept the possibility that he may be frightened by the power he is drawn to. After all, what do women fear more than the power of men? Who protects a woman from what she wants? This reminds you of that Bratmobile song:

Baby, I don't hate men  
Just all the things they do  
Baby, I don't hate men  
Maybe I just hate you

Fuck, what a great cut. And speaking of men you might hate, there's a certain boy you haven't heard from in a while, a certain golden narcissist with a face like German expressionism. You know the one. The two of you haven't met in the flesh since you jerked him off to his own quarterly evaluation last month. Has Quattro finally chickened out? Discovered a healthy sense of shame? That would be a Columbian discovery. Maybe his family got nosy. Maybe he's got someone his own age.

Yeah, right. Real dirt, he's ditched you for your dildo. He was ambivalent at first about bringing it home, said he'd mail it back to you, "assuming that's even legal." Pretty soon he was inquiring about its potential. He asked whether he ought to sterilize it. Well, you pointed out, it _was_ wearing a condom on its last mission. Well _if_ it had seen unsheathed use, he replied, what would hypothetically be the protocol? (At this point, you stopped thinking of it as your dildo.) You instructed Quattro to boil his hypothetical dildo on the stove for a few minutes, and use water-based lube in the hypothetical future to avoid damaging the silicone. And don't lose it up there, or it'll be a trip to the ER.

Oh, he denied it—said you were full of wild ideas, besides, he's too smart for that kind of mishap. A few days later, he had a "purely academic" interest in an anal vibrator by the same manufacturer. He insisted you should buy it. For yourself, of course. He only wanted to know whether the Bluetooth feature could sync with the BPM of a song on his phone. You asked what song he had in mind. He sent you a link to a two-hour drum and bass mix. He clarified that this was a joke. You knew it was a joke, because at that tempo he'd only need about 18 seconds.

_Anyway, I was thinking it would be safer for you to use a hands-free device while driving ;P_

_I'm not sure I'm prepared to log into the cloud and discover that my vibrator has backed up data spreadsheets on my orgasms._

_Ha, Quinton would love that feature... he and his boyfriend are probably using it already lmao_

_Bless them._

_You know, I thought of something else ;)) kind of a metaphysical question... if two people use the same dildo, is it like an indirect kiss?_

_We've done more than kiss, haven't we?_

_Um, I wasn't talking about us... I'm not actually sticking objects up my ass for fun, that would be gay. It's all philosophical speculum ;P_

_Freudian slip?_

_What, "philosophical?" Lmao, you've never heard of Philosophocles? The ancient Greek? Born on the island of Crete? He wrote all those plays, then died of poison._

_That's definitely a real guy._

_Look, I don't care. Whatever you think, this isn't about me trying to get in touch with my gay half. It's not even half, it's more like 2%._

_Kinsey 1, huh?_

_I don't know what that means. Is that a moon mission? You know I'm not that old, right?_

_You're right. It was an outdated remark._

_There's nothing wrong with intellectual curiosity, OK? I come from a family of scientists. I'm conjectural. I question the world and its signs and meanings._

_Here's a question for you, Glaucon... Why is it degrading for a man to enjoy anal pleasure?_

_It isn't._

_Not at all?_

_It's perfectly natural, if you're gay. Or in a gay situation._

_What's a gay situation?_

_A situation where you're straight, but you're doing something gay. Like what we did._

_But I'm not straight._

_But you are, kind of._

_Did we have straight sex?_

_Yes_

_Both times? Or was the first time gay?_

_No, that's what I'm saying! It wasn't gay sex, it was just a gay situation._

_Let me see if I've got it... you and I are two straight people with gay tendencies, having straight sex under gay circumstances._

_You got it ;)_

_But enjoying anal pleasure on your own would be gay?_

_Look, I'm not enjoying anal! I'm doing THEORY, as a theoricist!!_

Better give it a rest, Barthes, before you reach your _jouissance_. Anyway, he stopped replying after that, and now three weeks have rolled by. You kind of hope he's dead. Then again, what if he died in an autoerotic accident? They'll trace the implement and you'll be in hot water. The wiser hope is that he's forgotten you. Is it possible to masturbate yourself to short-term memory loss?

But let's be real, [y/n], you do kind of miss him. Not because you enjoyed his company, god no, he's intolerable. It's possessing him that really got you off. His split desire to please you and show you the very worst of himself, both wishes born of the same neediness—you love being the vessel of such a pathetic fantasy, don't you? He's brimming with vigorous youth and its folly, and you've been sucking it out of him like a divine nectar. He's sophomoric, you're succubic. He's the piece of shit and you're the rat eating it.

"So how's the gay night life?" your coworker asks. "Seeing anybody?"

You make a vague sound.

"I think lesbian relationships are beautiful," she says. "They're not all about the sex. Straight couples can be so awful that way."

"Sex isn't that bad," you say.

"Sure, when you're having it with someone who understands your body! It's different with men. They never ask what you want. It's always about them. But hey, what can you do." She gets a faraway look in her eyes. "Does your partner do... the things you want her to?"

You nod cautiously.

"Do you... do you ever share each other's clothes, and things like that?"

You mention that it's happened.

"That's so _nice_ ," she sighs. "I wish I could have what you have, [y/n]. A person who'd _really_ understand me. But... I guess I was born this way."

Sometimes it hits you with transcendent clarity that we are each sowing our very own misery. Now is one of those times. There's an issue of _Nylon_ lying open on the table. A vaguely familiar indie celeb spouts _Cosmopolitan_ platitudes rebranded for the alt-fashion demo—you can do it, girls! Be bold and different and socially unacceptable, as long as it involves $22 body glitter. Pleasure is revolutionary, and consumption is pleasure. You may think you're chasing your bliss, but there are no whims, no accidents; the author, as Barthes would have it, is born with his text.

There's a voice inside you that's screaming every minute. _Get out,_ the voice says. _You're going to die._ Of course you're going to die. Everyone dies. _You're trapped here,_ the voice says. _You're trapped over there, too._ Men, women, humans—it's all window dressing, right? _You're a rat forced to eat shit,_ the voice says. So you eat shit! What's the big deal? _You'll never be happy!_ the voice shrieks. _You're a single tooth on the great gearwork of human suffering!_ You look at a snap of Quattro's horrible, horrible face and the darkest part of your soul hits its resonant frequency. How could you do this? What the hell is wrong with you?

Speaking of those ancient Greeks... you're reminded of a myth you read in your school days. It's the story of Atlanta. She's a real dyke icon: sworn virgin, semi-feral, raised by bears, hunts with the men. After she dispatches a local cursed boar, her dickhead dad (the one who abandoned her as a baby) wants her to come home and get married, buy a house in the 'burbs, two kids and a CR-V, the whole package. Of course, Atlanta's more interested in rescuing pitbulls and collecting rare Tegan and Sara demos. So she says sure, I'll marry any guy who can beat me in a footrace, but if he loses, he fucking dies. She thinks she's figured out how to deter unwanted male advances. You can kind of forgive her for not knowing any better.

Anyway, along comes the boy with the game-changer: three golden apples from Aphrodite (because no woman worth her seafoam can resist the opportunity to screw another woman over). Our hero goes toe-to-toe with Atlanta. As she sprints ahead of him, he rolls the apples, one by one, into her path. Imagine that these apples have Quattro's face on them. They're solid gold and sublimely terrifying. They arrest her at an existential level. She knows it's her undoing, but it can't be helped—she _has_ to stop and pick up these apples. She has to fuck these apples. She has to ravish and humiliate these apples. It makes her feel alive. One, two, three apples. Fuckboy is crossing the finish line, her fate is sealed. A wedding party is waiting outside the stadium to confiscate her worn Tevas and her annotated copy of _The Well of Loneliness_. They're going to take her off every mailing list. On the facing sidewalk, good honest people are promising her she will go to hell—that she may shave her legs and cover her tattoos, but her soul bathed in boar's blood will burn for eternity. She's still running. All she can see are the apples. One, two, three apples. On their polished surfaces, she sees the reflection of a woman radiant with power. She chases that woman. A final glimmer—and then it's over.

This is the part where eight-year-old you would slam the book shut in fury, but at [your age], you know how to sit through a movie's credits and reflect. It's your story, [y/n]. The fruits you've gathered are meaningless. A consolation prize. In this world of gods and kings, they've got you exactly where they want you. You threw it all away for some fucking apples. What can you do now? You know the answer. Take a big, juicy bite of that apple. Savor that bitch. Let its divine nectar run down your chin.

* * *

_Hope you're ready for the new, successful me ;))_

You get this text at 6:30 in the morning. It's accompanied by an address, no explanation.

_Come to the 3rd floor at 5. Should be wrapping up then ;P_

New Quattro, same two emoji. He knows perfectly well you work until 6. What the hell is this location? It's not close to your office. A search reveals it's some kind of studio space in the fashion district. Oh fuck. Oh shit.

In your heart, you know exactly what's waiting for you, but you pray it's a gallery opening for an installation of 10,000 broken doll parts. Nude modeling sessions for an amateur figure drawing class. A courier gig for an architectural firm, a job sweeping shards off the floor of a glassblowing studio— _anything_ but in-house fashion photography.

You're in an elevator and the walls are mirrors. Probably what lies at the end of that infinite reflective tunnel is a giant neon sign that says "POSTMODERNISM" with fireworks shooting off behind it. You passed a person in the lobby drinking collagen water. They were wearing studded overalls with one strap fastened and a T-shirt reading "DIE NASTY DYNASTY." You're not ready for this. You're going to die, and it's going to be so nasty.

Half a dozen people are running around the set. There's the photographer and his intern assistant. A trio of stylists. A guy who's got to be the style director because he's talking loudly on his phone. In the thick of it all: the man, the myth, the monstrosity, Quattro fucking Arclight. His professionally made-up face can only be compared to the experience of seeing a film in superfluously remastered 3D. It's coming at you from every angle. He's radiating some kind of supernatural glow that enters your entire brain like the fiery visions of Saint Hildegard of Bingen. You have to avert your eyes and duck behind the canvas partition. Jesus. He really did it. He really got hired. This is legit.

You steel yourself for a second look. No one has noticed you. They're all fussing over Quattro, touching up his jawline, adjusting his clothes, correcting his pose. He's wearing impossibly tight white jeans, a messy camel chemise rolled to the elbows, a distressed scarf that looks outright traumatized, and white mesh/leather fingerless gloves. His hair is titanic. It's shrouding his skull like a nimbus. How the hell did it get so big? There are so many questions. You try to put them in order. Who are they shooting for? Is Quattro working freelance, or through an agency? How many gigs has he booked? Does he have a portfolio? Who wrote his contract? Is he actually pulling this off? Should you even be here?

You lie low and you listen. You quickly learn several things. One, this shoot is taking a lot longer than anyone expected. Judging by the director's asides, he blames the intern, who was off-set for an hour handling a fuckup with the catering. From everyone else's subtle reactions, it's clear the real reason is that Quattro won't shut up. He has opinions about everything. He chats while the photographer is trying to shoot. He's flirting with the female stylists. He's flirting with the director, too, although he himself doesn't realize it.

The director loves Quattro. He's heaping praise on him. You infer that Quattro was scouted last-minute for this shoot after the assigned model was decommissioned in a skiing accident. The director is a bit of a ham, and you can tell he admires the same quality in Quattro. You can tell he's projecting, acting hearty and magnanimous toward the image of his younger self. Looks like you aren't the only aging narcissist in this town.

"It's not like I was expecting them to roll out a red carpet," Quattro is saying. "I mean, this is Punta Cana, not the Four Seasons Anguilla! But I get in the _guagua_ at the airport _,_ and I'm quoted 50 pesos for the trip. Well, we picked up—I shit you not—a dozen people on the way. One of them was carrying an iguana." The hairstylist tilts Quattro's head to the left. "So it's me, my luggage, and my Panama hat getting crushed against the side of this minivan with a guy and his lizard for 45 minutes. Then we get to the resort, and the driver tells me I owe him _300 pesos_. I just bit his head off. I mean, I lost it."

"OK, let's try and be present here," the photographer says. "We've got to wrap this, Megan has a conference call with Seoul in thirty minutes."

The director is smiling, shaking his head. "Those scam artists the worst," he says. "It's a cultural thing. They love to rip foreigners off."

"You know, 300 pesos is still a cheap ride," the stylist cuts in. "My uncle is Dominican—"

"Hey, can we fix the lighting?" The director waves at the intern, who's steaming the pieces on the rack.

"I mean, 300 pesos wouldn't buy you a cocktail." The stylist is ignored. "Heck... 300 pesos wouldn't buy you a beer in Manhattan."

"Has your uncle ever gone parasailing?" Quattro turns his head again, thwarting the hairstylist. "You have to do it sometime, it's incredible. But don't bother with anything that's not a private tour. The hotel packages aren't actually private, they just tell you it's private so you—"

"Destiny, are you done updating your status? We're in a time crunch." The director is losing his patience.

"Oh my god." The intern is shaking and clutching her phone. "Oh my god. My mom's car got totaled."

"Is she hurt?"

"No, she's fine, but the insurance... I don't think... oh my god..."

The photographer puts his camera down. "Do you need a minute?"

"Can I get a water?" Quattro asks.

"We don't _have_ a minute," the director says. "Destiny, if your mom's in one piece, then you need to be professional."

"If our insurance rates go up, we can't pay our rent. We'll have to move in with my grandma. That's three hours away. I can't afford to live on campus. Oh my god. This is it. I'm not going to graduate." Destiny begins to sob. "I took out so many loans, and I'm not even going to graduate!" No one seems to know what to say.

"Why don't you try getting a job?" No one except Quattro.

"I _have_ a job!" Destiny is melting down. "I have a work-study job, and another job to cover my living expenses so I can work _here_ unpaid!"

"Couldn't you get a job that's better? It's not hard. Just fix up your résumé. I could help you look over it, if you want." Oh, that little bitch. "You're pretty good with Photoshop, right? You should try designing websites. Maybe if you did a few projects for exposure..."

"I can't believe this." Destiny is despondent. The photographer is halfheartedly trying to get a word in, but she's gathering her things. "I have to go. I'm sorry, I—I have to go."

The director isn't backing down. "Oh, great, so you're out of here... fine, fantastic! You know, Destiny—you act like you're getting a raw deal, but you never put in 100%. Guess what? The world doesn't revolve around you. I've got a crew to pay, I've got a table of sushi that no one here can eat because the fish isn't organic farmed."

But Destiny is already on her way out the door. She doesn't even look up as she sweeps past you. You send her off with a prayer that she will find something better out there in the wilderness, that she will never come back to this horrible place.

"Well, that's it," the director says. "Just fuck absolutely everything. We're postponing to Wednesday. Quattro, you can make it, right?"

"Sure thing, boss." Quattro flashes him a charming smile.

"All right, kid. Good work today. We'll see you. Megan, let's get on that call."

There's a lot of commotion. The crew is packing up and leaving in a hurry. You stand by as they file past you without so much as a glance. It's just Quattro left on the empty set. You step out from behind the partition.

"Oh, there you are." He smirks. "I thought you'd stood me up."

You kind of wish you had. But the show's not over yet.

"Come into the dressing room," he says. "I've gotta get changed."

* * *

"So how on earth did you do this?"

Quattro makes eyes at his own reflection, then leans against the short countertop in front of the mirror. "I did what you told me, coach."

You make a gesture indicating he's not done explaining.

He cracks a grin. "It's not just mental discipline. I've been putting myself through the physical, too. Strict diet and exercise regimen. Just look at me... hiring _this_ was their only option." A double-entendre? Is he being self-deprecating? No—he's unequivocally proud of himself. Look at that smirk. You ask whether it's really possible for someone to transform their body in three weeks. He lifts his shirt and tells you to feel for yourself. Well, shit. Maybe it is.

"What do you think?" He's cozying up to you, getting flirty. "You like it?"

You'd better pick your words carefully. "Pretty dramatic."

"I've gone all-out. It feels amazing. I'm hotter than I've ever been in my life, and I'm never going back." He's peeling off the leather gloves, biting one and making an obscene face. He's not a stripper; strippers have talent. He's a vain, spoiled child.

"There's nothing _vain_ ," he says, "about owning your appearance. It's called self-actualization." He pulls out his phone and taps at it. "Here. Look at this."

It's a photo of 14-year-old Quattro in an awkward slouch against a tiled wall, his hair matted and greasy, his face blotchy with acne. He's on the chubby side and looks uncomfortable in an ill-fitting button-down shirt.

"See? I used to be such an ugly fatass," he says. But weight and complexion have nothing to do with it—it's his sulking demeanor, and you tell him so.

"Oh, come on—really, you'd fuck _that_?"

You tell him you would never fuck a 14-year-old.

"Not exactly what I was asking."

You run your hand down his perfectly flat belly, across his trim obliques. Sure, you've never been much for conventional beauty standards. But this acute physique stuns you in its severity. It's a brazen refutation of fat, that sweet original sin. And Quattro is neither guru nor athlete—he's a middle-tier player in the pyramid scheme of masculinity. Touching his cut abs is like touching a new Audi: nobody needs 250 horsepower for the morning commute except assholes with limp dicks and something to prove. But then, if someone offered to let you take their Audi out for a drive, you would, wouldn't you? You'd floor that sucker on the freeway. You might pick your nose and wipe it on the steering wheel... who can say? Either way, what you're looking at is a status symbol. An enchanted token of manhood. The boss doesn't play for tokens. She's playing for cold, hard cash.

Quattro catches your hands at his sides and holds them there, like he wants you to appreciate how nice and tight his waist is. He complains (but you know he's bragging) that besides four cups of iced coffee, all he's eaten today is a cup of yogurt with flaxseed. He starts telling you about egg whites and whey protein and cold pressed juice, but all you can hear is "welcome to my new eating disorder." The rules are insane. Did he come up with these, or did someone else? He can eat grapes in single-digit prime-number quantities, and any berry with a prefix ending in a vowel, but must avoid non-piscine animals whose meat is "humid," e.g. waterfowl and milk-fed lambs. You tell him this sounds like a lot of work.

"It _is_ a lot of work," he says, glowing with pride at your intimation that he is making a contribution to society by downing daily shots of apple cider vinegar to curb his appetite.

"Well, if it makes you happy," you say. "Just take care of yourself," and then you almost throw up in your mouth because he's done it, he's really done it this time, he's made you voice concern for his goddamn motherfucking well-being, which, in a line of work like this... let's not kid ourselves.

But maybe there's something to be said for Quattro's discipline. He _did_ get this far in just three weeks, right? He's created powerful change in his own life. That takes grit.

"So," he says, stripping his open shirt off, "I'm thinking of getting a tapeworm," and you wish you were dead. You wish it so hard that for a second, it actually happens. Here is what you see from the other side of death:

* * *

[A furtive flashback to your adolescence: your first crush, your first menses, your {team sport narrative}, your {romcom}, your {Best Picture-nominated drama}, and any scenes that imbue the following words with meaning: parasite, possession, condition, protection, projection, art, artifice, succor, sucker, occupation, preoccupation, corporation, corporeality, corpulence, consumption, construction, collusion, data, Dada, flesh, bone, gimmick, puppet, giant, Grindr, product, service, fanservice, hell, HELL!!!!!!!!!!, revulsion, revolution, the perils of late capitalism, penetration, assimilation, sublime, sublimation, dickass, fuckhell, shitshow]

[Satan laughs. Satan has a wacky cartoon laugh. Satan probably sounded much better in the sub.]

* * *

"I need to sit down for a minute" are the words you've managed to form with your mouth after returning to life. You were dead for maybe half a second, but it was long enough. Now you want to live. No question about it.

You're perched on a cheap folding chair and Quattro is nude from the waist up, chewing on a diamond-encrusted dog tag. There are spray-tan streaks running down his sides. He's locking eyes with you. Fuck, this is happening. You knew this was going to happen, but you tried to believe you weren't the kind of person who would fuck someone in a dressing room while they're wearing clothes they don't own. That reserve of dignity is gone forever.

Quattro gives a little head toss and saunters over and says he's _finna get nasty_ and he is so white, whiter than a Clorox ad, whiter than the sands of Punta Cana, and he smells like the inside of a magazine, which is appropriate because you can read this bitch. He's light reading.

"You're kidding me," you say, but you know the score.

He stands over you, provocative, his hands balanced on your shoulders. As if you'd give him an inch. He thinks he's JT, but he'll have himself naked by the end of this song. He moves his eyebrows around and says more words. Your stare is unflinching. The defiant edge comes off his expression as he plops himself in your lap and presses his body against yours. He's rubbing his face on your neck like a cajoling cat. He's already hard. Oh, yikes, he's really hard.

"I'm beautiful," he says, rolling his hips shamelessly. "You can't refuse me."

"You want me to take care of you right here?" You rub his lower back, tease your hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs. Wow, he likes that. He's squirming even more against you. How can you possibly say no to this? Go for it, [y/n]. Grab the ass. Squeeze that premium cut. You do it. You grab everything you can grab—firm backside, shapely thighs, those tender obliques. He gives you needy, unsatisfied little moans as you caress him. You hear the unbuckling of his belt. Make no mistake, that's you doing that. You're stripping it off of him, casting it to the ground like the serpent out of Eden. He's got the same idea, loosening your necktie and fumbling with the buttons on your shirtcollar. Is that a French manicure? He'd better be careful.

"[Y/n]," he murmurs, "you know what I want, don't you?"

"I can't imagine." You kiss him assertively as you brush your hand lightly against the front of his jeans, making him moan into your mouth. The jeans are so tight, they might as well be a second skin—how the hell are you going to get them off of him? Quattro yanks you closer by your tie and dry-humps you greedily while guiding your hand back to the slope of his ass. He huffs with displeasure as you grip his hips to hold him in place. God, you love seeing him so uncomfortably aroused. It makes you feel evil.

"[Y/n]," he rasps in your ear. "I think we both want the same thing."

"Oh, really? What's that?"

"Do I have to say it?"

"Hey, I'm down to clown."

"I'm talking more specific..."

"Specific..."

"It's a type of... _situation_."

You follow his gaze to a black designer messenger bag resting discretely on the carpet next to your chair. He nods at you, pushing it toward you with his foot. You reach in. Of course. It's the dildo. But wait. This isn't your dildo. This is a different, larger dildo. And it's not by itself in the bag. There's... holy fuck. _He planned this._

You're in the situation room.

Pants are coming off lightning-fast. You're pulling straps and assembling pieces like a paratrooper in a foxhole. Your shirt and bra are gone. By the time you're through with the fumbling, Quattro is on top of the vanity, legs apart, arms planted for balance, looking at you—no, looking behind you. He's watching himself in the facing mirror. He apparently loves what he sees.

"God," he says, "I don't know how you held out this long. How could you stand to not be fucking me?"

"Business first, pleasure second," you say. "And, speaking of... there's a conflict of interest."

"Oh no there isn't—" He grabs your head with both hands and pulls you forward into a kiss, wrapping his legs around you. The countertop isn't very wide. You lean up against him so he won't slide off. Then you clutch his shoulders and break off the kiss.

"You'd better clarify," you say. "Because I heard you flirt with that director and call him 'boss.' But he's not a boss. He's just a tool who hands you a paycheck."

"You—" From the way his breathing is speeding up, he must think he's close to getting what he wants. "You don't need to worry about him. Just give me the good shit, babe." He squirms, trying to improve his angle. His cock is already dripping.

"You want the good shit? You talk a big game for a rookie slut... have you even tested this equipment? I don't want liability for a rectal prolapse."

"For your information—" (he fondles himself with one hand while saying this) "—I fuck myself every night with this thing. And I think about you."

You slide a hand up his thigh. "Me? And what else?"

"Nothing else. Just this. Your body. Your scent. Fuck, everything. _Fuck—!_ " He's already gotten himself good and slick with the lube. You slip inside him easily. "Ohhh, that's _it_..."

You grip his hips. "Tell me what else. Full disclosure."

"I think about myself, too." There's flirtatious defiance in his voice. "You know exactly why. I'm fucking gorgeous. Italian Renaissance-level game."

Hieronymus Bosch, maybe. He scoots forward, then back. It's not easy balancing. You cant your hips and he gives a little gasp, followed by a hungry groan. To your surprise, you're all the way in. Either he really has been practicing, or he's so high on ego and adrenaline that he doesn't feel his insides splitting apart. You ask him if he's OK.

"I'm so OK," he moans. "I'm so, so OK..."

"If it's too much, we should stop."

"It's not...! Just move, already..."

You're not sure whether you should. Does he know his limits? He's slid down almost completely onto his back, but there isn't enough room between you and the mirror for him to lie flat, and it looks uncomfortable. He'll hit his head if you get rough with him.

He braces himself and writhes, frustrated. It's no use—you're the catalyst of this operation. " _Give me what I need_ ," he says, his throat dry. "I know you want to."

You gently stroke him. His eyes flutter closed. He's so engorged down there, you can feel his heartbeat.

"You want to come?" you ask.

"It's not enough just to come," he says. "I need you to stuff me so full of cock that I... that I..."

The phrase he's looking for is "forget the emptiness of my own existence," but you're not going to sit around and wait for that. You begin to fuck him, hard. You continue fucking him, harder. You fuck him so hard that you knock the fake flowers off the mirror. Quattro's elbow slips and the two of you completely exit the vanity. He somehow manages to land on the shitty folding chair, which collapses and tips over, and you tacitly resume sex in this new position instead of helping him up. His body makes a 45-degree angle. For one fleeting second, you meet Quattro's eyes, and there it is—that manic desperation, his face coming apart like a cheap umbrella.

"More," he whines. "Give me more..."

What's missing? What does he need in order to be sold on this experience, to lose himself in the movie magic? Of course—lights and camera. You commandeer Quattro's phone and play that sultry Cassie song featuring Jeremih. There's your soundtrack. You set your own phone to record video.

"This is just between the two of us," you say, to make it clear that he's performing for the entire world. You yank the chair out from under him and throw it across the room, kiss him until his makeup is beautifully ruined, lift his hips off the floor with both hands as you hammer away at the iron curtain of your own self-respect like it's 1989. You will destroy everything in your path.

Quattro tenses and undulates beneath you, acting for an invisible audience in the limelight of his own mind. There's a glow in his eyes, like the glow of a distant and fateful star, shining in every direction, burning from every screen, hoisted at every concert, the candle of recognition, the Divine Spark. It's blazing like a 24-hour mini-mart on a barren highway, on the darkest night of the soul. You know what that light is, in reality: a single pixel on a vast LCD that spells out a message too terrible to be spoken by the human tongue. In his own mind, though—he's the flame of heaven, consuming the offering of Elijah (which, in this metaphor, is your dick). He's awash in this moment. They see him. They all finally see him! He is the thrumming nucleus of your desires. Chosen. Celestial. Bathed in his own radiance, adored by you and by the camera, by heaven and earth. Some kind of adult contemporary vision of bliss is Ken Burns-ing into view and you yearn for its impossible reality. Fuck, here it is—your orgasm. You are fading away into the bullshit and it's amazing. You have been subsumed in Quattro's truth. You are deeper inside of him than you've ever been. He is your golden apple, your yellow Audi, your brazen bitch, and you love him so much.

Quattro moans your name again and again as you wring him for everything he's worth. You actually came before he did—maybe all that solo practice has boosted his endurance. If nothing else, it proves he's capable of learning a skill. But proper incentive will be key, and you know eventually you'll have to give him a serious talking-to about the ethics of working for exposure. As he is, he wouldn't deliver for anything _but_ exposure. In fact, you'd better make sure you delete the video off your phone ASAP. He'd leak it in a second.

"Take me to Venus!" There's a lot of garbage coming out of his mouth right now. "Oh— _ohhhh—!_ Fuck, yes, god fucking yes, I feel your charge... I feel your atomic _mass_... that's it... that's it, [y/n]... fill me, fuck me, I need you in my _gluons..._ " Where did he pick up particle physics dirty talk? "I'm so _close_ , [y/n], just _get_ me there... I'm so full of you, so ready to burst, I'm a red giant, I'm going to nut stardust, it feels so _good..._ "

Here comes a realization: you think Quattro is hot. Quivering from head to toe like an electrocuted corpse, his eyes swimming in their sockets, head rolling on the plush carpet, mouth contorted in an ecstatic grimace, face achieving non-Euclidean geometry—this is now hot to you, and you must live with that. It's a bell that can't be un-rung. One door has closed, another has opened. There's an open door right in front of you. It's not a proverb. The door to the dressing room is actually open. The director's face has appeared in it like a lucky 7. Quattro doesn't notice. He's maybe thirty seconds from cashing it. You're riding out your third or fourth orgasm, no one's keeping score.

The director takes stock of the scene. He's confused, then shocked, then severe. But he doesn't speak. Men with experience are good at this. They know they don't have to make a move—they can just let the clock run out. A common asshole can bank on your basic decency and win every time.

The director's eyes are searing into Quattro. He expects the other shoe to drop at any second: scrambling, apologies, frantic efforts to cover you up. The director assumes he will end up blasting Quattro back to the recesses of Craigslist or else counseling him about his sex addiction, possibly using sex. What the director hasn't realized is that there's a boss in the room, and it isn't him.

You snare the director's gaze. You sustain the urgent pace of your thrusts as you command him to look at you. Straight in the fucking face. Let him get acquainted. Let him flare his nostrils like a pissed-off animal as Quattro's delirious shoegaze yelps climb in volume. This is for the intern, you wage-violating sack of shit. The director starts cracking. He's getting it. He can't force you toward shame. Instead he's being forced to watch you fuck the gilded possession that is Quattro's body. He's being fucked by proxy.

Did Quattro come already? Ah, yes, he did—it got on the carpet, too. Looks like that'll wrap things up for the two of you. You're crouched over him like a wolf at a kill, but you settle back on your haunches for a minute, just so the director can get a good look at the size of your dick. The door slams, hard. Quattro doesn't even react to the sound. He's completely spent. He's so far gone in the afterglow, he looks unconscious. Holy shit. Wait.

_He is fucking unconscious._

You fucked him unconscious.

OK, calm down. He's for sure breathing. What should you do? Try to slap him awake? He'll need fluids. You barrel out the door and onto the set, scaring the shit out of Megan. You make a beeline for the mini fridge. You grab vitamin waters. The director is threatening to call the police. You tell him you are the police. It's just the first thing that pops out. The director asks what kind of officer patrols stark naked, committing indecent acts with a strap-on, in a private building. You tell him not to fuck up the most sophisticated sting operation in the history of Interpol's human trafficking division, or he can answer to the UN. The director says he's not buying your crazy horseshit, but it's already too late for him. Once you start arguing with a person in a strap-on, you're not going to win.

In the dressing room, Quattro is coming to. You put one water to his lips and pour the other over his head. He moans something about vinegar. Vinegar? Of course—he hasn't eaten! His blood sugar must be desperately low. You tear your briefcase apart for a bag of BBQ-flavored Bugles. Quattro shakes his head weakly.

"I am not putting that in me," he says.

"This isn't the time to be picky."

"My body is a temple. I decide what goes in the temple. I am God."

"Quattro, eat the fucking Bugles."

"I am God, [y/n]! Get me my vinegar!"

"You can't live like this! Whose idea was this diet? Some quack?"

"Try the poet Lord Byron in 1821!"

"Try an anorexic who died in his thirties!"

"I'm never going back, I won't go back to being ugly," and now he's sobbing, great, another thing for you to deal with. Quattro then confesses to you that the most humiliating moment of his life was in a middle school P.E. class where he failed so spectacularly to clear the high jump that the incident became known as the "Arcflight."

"It was even worse," he says, wiping his face on a torn T-shirt retailing for the price of a new laptop, "because my P.E. teacher used to single me out." You nod compassionately. He takes a handful of chips from your open palm and chews them while talking. "'Why aren't you doing aerobics with the class, Quattro?' And I say, 'Because I have a fucking hard-on from watching the chick in the video, is why.' Then I get sent to the office. Then the next week it's 'Why aren't you doing yoga?' And I say, 'If I tell you, you'll send me to the office.' 'But it's a male instructor this time.' 'Well, I'm not doing it on purpose.' 'Well, do you have to make a big deal out of it in front of the whole class?' And I say, 'I'm not the one making it a big deal, you're the one grading my dick for participation.' And then my foster parents are getting a call."

He's noshing on the Bugles now, rubbing makeup off his face with the back of his hand. "You can't imagine the horrors of the foster care system unless you've lived through them. Trey and I were forced to share a room with two other kids." You pause with bated breath. Quattro looks at you. "Two other kids. Total strangers. And they hogged the TV."

"I see."

Quattro sighs. "I've been through a lot in my life. Mostly from other people, although I've made some mistakes." He traces his scar, thoughtful. "Nothing worth mentioning, but still."

"Mistakes are how we grow," you say. If this isn't true, you're fucked.

"There was a time, before I achieved fame, when I didn't think I could do anything." He laughs. "I was so dumb then. But you know, I'm starting to think there was one way I was actually smart... do you know the story of the golden apple?"

A chill runs down your spine. You tell Quattro to go on.

"So the golden apple, basically, there are these three goddesses who all want it, because it's supposed to be _for the fairest_. The guy who gets to decide is called Paris. This is a Greek myth, by the way, not a French one. Paris has the apple, and the goddesses offer him different bribes for it. Also by the way, they're all naked. Hera says, 'I'll give you political power. You can be the king of Europe and Asia.' Which was like, the whole world back then. Athena says, 'I'll give you wisdom and skill, you'll be the most kickass warrior ever.' But Aphrodite says, 'I'll give you love. The most beautiful woman on earth will fall for you. Say goodbye to your virginity, and more importantly, you'll be happy together, forever.' So that's what he picks."

Quattro flops down against the thick carpet. He is, also by the way, still naked.

"I used to think about this story, back then," he says. "Because it gave me hope."

"Hope?"

"Paris wasn't a real special guy," he says. "He was a shepherd or something. But his heart was pure."

You squint at Quattro. "You're talking about the guy who started the Trojan War."

"It's the thing that's most important to you in life. That's what the golden apple really means. The moral of the story is that love conquers all. Back then, I thought it was comforting, because I didn't think I'd ever be smart or talented or powerful. But I figured I could still have the best thing. Quinton would have picked skill and wisdom... Trey would pick the throne."

"Trey, really? You think he'd spring for world domination?"

"He thinks he can help people. Which—and I don't mean this in a bad way—is fucking retarded."

You don't know what to say.

"As soon as my career blew up, I knew the story had been right. Being loved is the most incredible thing in the world. If you have that, everything else is easy. If you don't..." He stares at the ceiling. "It's impossible."

 _Love conquers all. Fame = love._ How could Quattro have internalized such a total distortion of a warning tale against selfish lust? How could he have messed up this badly?

He rolls onto his side. "I didn't think I'd get another chance. But that was before I met a certain someone." He looks at you for a long time, his eyes sparkling with fondness.

You had a million chances. You could have stopped this bullshit thing from happening. But you had to chase that fucking apple, didn't you?

"My perfect woman," he says. "My golden fruit."

You push the air in through your nose and out through your mouth. There are only two ways for any story to end: a wedding or a funeral. Maybe, if you're lucky, a boot stamping on Quattro's face forever. When you came to the situation room, didn't you expect to find a situation? Or did you think it would be safely contained, outside of you? You should have known better, [y/n]. The minute you entered this bitch, you entered his situation. Strap on and strap in, because you're not getting out of this one.


	4. First, Last, Always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, story tags have been updated; please review them for relevant content warnings. Thank you!

When it comes right down to it, you felt responsible for costing Quattro the modeling gig. The email from the director was scorching. A professional bitch-slap. Multiple references to "your insane dominatrix." Yeah, this might have been your fault entirely. Sure, the little whore was asking for it, but somewhere in that sordid chain of events you crossed the line from abetting to impeding Quattro's career. That, if nothing else, has been weighing on you.

On the other hand—as you thought long and hard over a rack of ribs at a Texas barbecue joint where Quattro had declined to join you, calling the dietary implications "cataclysmic"—you'd better get him out of the anorexia industry, and fast. From a health standpoint, it can't go on, no matter how many fainting couches Quinton installs in his new décor. A five-hour workout on 700 calories per day is a recipe for a heart attack at age 20, and in the meantime he's missing out on some damn good potato salad. Shit, you should try making this at home. What's in this, prosciutto? Jesus.

All right, excuses aside, you were feeling guilty, and perhaps, just like old Professor Henry Higgins, you've grown accustomed to your pupil's ugly mug. That's why you're at the airport baggage check at 4:14 in the morning, handing the agent a pair of tickets while Quattro shuffles around behind you, yanking the laces of his hood as tight as they will go around his face.

"I can't _believe_ we're in coach. With no priority boarding. We haven't even gotten on the plane and this has already been the most uncomfortable trip of my _life_." He gives the ticket agent a suave, knowing look. "We carpooled here in a tiny hatchback. Didn't even stop for coffee. Now, if it were _my_ option, I'd treat my girl a lot better, you know what I'm saying?”

The agent barely glances at him. "You going to Denver, sir?"

"I dunno… will I meet someone as pretty as you in Denver?"

You wrestle Quattro's bag onto the scale. The agent glances at it. "You're overweight," she says.

The color drains from his face. "Beg your pardon?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake, put a few sweaters on—we're boarding in twenty minutes."

"Excuse me, this bitch just called me fat!"

The agent flattens her mouth and holds her palms up in front of her like she's washing her hands of this mess.

"Do you know who I am? Yeah, didn't think so. What are they paying you, minimum wage to stand up here and take cheap shots at your patrons? You look like a horse wearing clown makeup, I would never fuck you. Second of all—"

It's taken you a minute to rifle through Quattro's bag for excess bulk (you're running on very little sleep) but you somehow manage to shut him up and hustle him into the security line before a supervisor gets involved.

"The nerve of these people. It's like they actively hate you."

"If you're bringing boots, you're wearing them on the plane. Also, I don't know why you brought Timberlands. We are not hiking."

"Wrong. I'm going to ride the shit out of an ATV."

You thrust a wad of bergamot-scented clothing into his hands. "Just deal with this. I'm not handling your crap." This is a total lie, you have basically signed his crap's legal adoption papers for the next week.

"Why can't I just pay a fee? Why are you treating me like I've never flown before?"

"I told you to bring your act on this trip, and you are blowing it."

"Ugh, I'm getting coffee after this."

And you thought the two of you could pull this off. Unbelievable. The security line is overflowing past the stanchions and your carpool colleagues are nowhere in sight. Jeffree Star's voice is purring from Quattro's ass.

"Fucking Quinton," he mutters, answering his phone from his back pocket. "What do you want, cunt? ...At the airport. No. No, it's not. No, _you_ listen to _me—_ I don't care, you can suck my dick right off. It's _not_ a vacation, I'm not even paying for it... Job shadowing at a conference. With my life coach. Yeah. No. I don't care. Then he should have thought of that before he fucking berated me and told me I was his least-well-adjusted kid... oh, _you're_ in a rough position? Yeah, I feel so sorry for you! Maybe if you'd quit bossing me, you dick-guzzling menace... go lick hot sauce out of someone's asshole. Don't call me."

"Excuse me," a woman with a stroller cuts in. "There are children listening."

"Your kid is dead asleep, bitch."

It's going to be a long flight.

"Quinton would never do the hot sauce thing anyway," Quattro confides in you as he strips off his belt for the metal detectors. "He can't handle spicy. I once saw him cry from eating Dijon mustard."

"Wow."

"He's unbearable when we go out to dinner. Takes thirty minutes to decide what he wants, then asks the server to hold half the ingredients. He'll end up with a bowl of lettuce and one cherry tomato. 'Oh, that's perfect.' Can't you hear him? God, I'm getting pissed off just thinking about it." He slams his phone into a plastic bin proffered by a security officer. "Man, you ever think about grabbing a 40 and shooting somebody in the mouth?"

As Quattro is yanked aside for further questioning, you consider it.

* * *

"Job shadowing" is putting it generously. "Escort" would be more accurate. The annual conference draws not just employees, but families and plus-ones, and you thought, fuck it, what's the point of getting some young hot ass if you can't show it off to the sepia-toned gaggle of directors who ask you every year if you were the one who got married last summer. Maybe Quattro's presence will give them something to remember. _Let them stare,_ you thought, and now everyone is staring as the plane sits on the tarmac and Quattro tries to convince the stewardess that she doesn't need to see his ID to tell him about the wine options before takeoff. You plug one ear.

"So yeah," you mutter into your Bluetooth earpiece, "looks like Mike, Grant, Rod, and Cheryl for the presentation Tuesday and then we'll conference in for the second phase, assuming we can't springboard off the module. Once they have quality control, we'll be looking to ladder up to five, maximum six key leadership objectives—" You see the second stewardess coming for you with a look in her eye. "Listen, I gotta go. My plane's taking off. I'll text you. The usual sushi place." You spot two of your colleagues a few rows ahead of you. Where the fuck is Grant? Oh, he got bumped to first class. He's giving you a thumbs-up in the aisle. Screw you, Grant. Manage your own team outside of Google Hangouts for once.

The plane goes airborne. Quattro's hand pats your thigh. You pretend to be engrossed in the credit card ad blaring from the in-flight entertainment screen. He leans close to your ear.

"I hear these some of these airlines have an exclusive club."

You catch his drift as he unbuckles his seatbelt, then his own belt, winks at you, and slips off down the aisle. Jesus. It's 5:20 A.M. Jesus, jesus, jesus.

Your colleagues are already out cold, heads lolling against company-emblazoned neck pillows. Grant is ordering a martini. Grant snorted 60mg of Ritalin in the car. Fuck it. You slip into the restroom. It smells like lilacs are trying to kill you.

"Close the fucking lid."

"I'm trying. Did they not empty this thing?"

His pants are halfway off and his dick is peeking out like a scared little animal beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. You choke on the hell-closet's abysmal stench as you fumble for the door bolt. Quattro plunks down on the seat of the toilet and gives you an amorous look as you balance yourself against the wall, leaning over him at a 30-degree angle.

"I hope you've got ideas," you say. "This is starting to look like a fool's errand."

"Oh shit." He bites on his finger nervously. "I may have forgotten a condom."

"Well, fuck me."

"Gee, I'm trying. Why don't you use some of that scented soap and jerk me off?"

"That's foaming hand sanitizer."

"Can I put it between your thighs?" You consider your attachment to the slacks you're wearing. He whines at you. "Come on, just take the pants off. I'll hold them, nobody will know the difference."

"I need you to understand, I have a meeting two hours after we land."

"Oh, c'mon, babe." He tries to spread his legs, but they can't go far. "You know you want a piece of this man-candy."

Given the confines, and with the miasmic atmosphere and the phrase _man-candy_ making you want to hurl, removing pants is an ordeal. You trip over Quattro's Timberlands and hit your shoulder on a metal compartment that pops open, raining complimentary feminine products on the both of you.

"Oh God!" Quattro reacts to an unused maxi-pad as if it were a cockroach. You retrieve one and unwrap it.

" _Please_ don't tell me you're on your period."

You stick the pad to the inside of your pant-leg and gesture to Quattro to hand you another. Within thirty seconds, he's convulsing furiously against your body as the plane hits turbulence and you wall-plank for your life. A pad falls off your ass. Who cares? This trip is about scoring points, and after scoring on a plane you've earned the ultimate Girl Scout badge. Blow that one out your nose, Grant.

* * *

You hit the hotel. Quattro's still in the shower when you rouse from your twenty-minute power nap. He's crooning the chorus to John Mayer's "Half of My Heart." The moment takes on a bittersweet emotional texture, like shopping for crackers at a Target. For a moment—maybe it's the lack of sleep—you soften. What must it be like to be a man, able to give as much as half of your heart to somebody?

Quattro issues from the bathroom in a cloud of BOD, a meager towel around his waist. He sidles over to the bed and flops onto his belly. He tells you he's so happy. He invites you to imagine all the things that could happen on this trip. God. You picture the meetings, the presentations, the tedious lunches and tête-à-têtes with higher-ups who have the power to promote you to regional executive. It's no walk in the park. But you've been grinding on your shit for years, and your hour is nigh.

"I've got a good feeling," you say.

Quattro's kissing your neck and trying to remove your tie. You tell him to cut the crap and get his ass in gear for the noon welcome reception. He ignores you and answers his phone.

"What did I fucking say, asshole? I'm not picking up again." He hangs up. The phone rings again and he answers it. "I said I'm not answering! Will you—oh." It's Trey. "The _what?_ How much? Just pick it up, will you? It's _our_ building management, for Christ's sake, they know where we live. This doesn't have to be complicated." They argue over several hundred in unpaid dry-cleaning. Quattro gets up and paces, putting Trey on speaker.

"—says you need to take responsibility for your stuff, and I'm just the messenger, OK? It's either him or Dad—"

"If Dad has something to say to me, put him on."

"Dad's not here, he went to weigh in on a proposed zoning action. Before he left, he threw out a bunch of your avocados."

"What the fuck!?"

"Quattro, there were nearly thirty avocados…"

"I _need_ those avocados! Did he touch my supplements?"

"Quinton moved those to the second pantry. He said space was an issue."

"How is space an issue?" (You're wondering the same thing. You've glimpsed the Arclight kitchen—it's the size of your living room.) "Dad never cooks, Quinton never eats, _you_ live off gluten-free snack foods. This is entirely Quinton's vendetta against supplements."

Trey sighs sympathetically. "You know his bias. He doesn't see the science."

"You and I both need to have a talk with him. I have some very credible sources."

Trey lowers his voice. "There's nothing scientific about his diet, either."

"Of course not. He's just picky. What's he been on for the last month?"

There's an awkward pause before Trey whispers into the phone, "Milk and radishes."

"That's awful."

"I know…"

"Milk is so bad for you."

They banter about Quinton for a few minutes, come to a truce on the cleaning bill, and say goodbye on what must be good terms in this family ("Love you" / "Thanks, gaywad"). Quattro flops on the bed and groans in exasperation.

"Trey's so easygoing. People are always babying him. He literally can break into a stranger's house and they'll fall over themselves trying to feed him." He blows his bangs out of his face. "But don't get me started on Admiral Faggot. 'Oh, Quinton, you look just like your father!' 'You're two of a kind!' 'Byron must be _so_ proud of you!' Yeah, fucking tell me about it." Stewing, he eats both of the hotel chocolates. "The last time I remember Dad giving a shit about me was when I got a major role in the school production of _Seussical Jr._ And then he walked out in the middle of it! He said our interpretation was 'goddamn freeform insanity.'"

"A man with high Seussian standards, huh?"

"He owned every season of _Yo Gabba Gabba!_ on DVD. In a room I wasn't allowed to touch."

You will never understand rich people. 

* * *

The lunch reception's already kicked off by the time you arrive. You snag two spots at a table with your usual cohort, a ragtag bunch of women who band together at annual meetings. There's Fatima from the Munich office, flanked by her husband; Sydney from Toronto; and, confusingly, Cheryl from Sydney. They all gawk at Quattro, but don't speak—some guy from corporate is still thanking the sponsors.

Fatima's an insider. She catches your ear. The boys like you, she says. You're a serious candidate for regional exec. A few limp dicks are in the running, but they won't get it. The only real contender is Ryan. You've never heard of Ryan. He's a bro from Cleveland, she says. He has the rapport, but she's gunning for you.

The spiel over the mic has just ended and everyone's waiting for you to explain why you've arrived with a young man in aviators and a blouse that's Burberry-patterned on the left half only. Before you can, Quattro opens with " _Ladiiieees—_ ah, I'm sorry, _women._ We're feminists, right?" and in the very same instant you see Cheryl's face cloud like a war-worn general's, her teenage daughter Melody lights up like an Ableton soundboard, and suddenly there are levels to this shit. Your old plan, which was to make wry remarks and let your fellow bitches in on the joke, has gone out the window. You cannot possibly project these harmful messages in the vicinity of a teenage girl. What if she grows up to make the same mistakes as you? No—all you can do now is contain the nuclear reactor that is your relationship to Quattro.

It won't be easy. Fatima's husband is Swedish—"Like saunas, right?"—and calling Quattro your _protégé_ sets him off on a five-minute humblebrag: "High praise, [y/n]! Well, I suppose it's true—I took the Asian championship when I was only sweet sixteen." (He misheard _protégé_ as _prodigy_.) "But that's all history. I'm very serious now about my modeling career. I daresay, you might see me in a spread with one of Sweden's finest!" He winks at Fatima's husband. You want to evaporate. "[Y/n] has been so good to me, as a mentor. Taking me underneath her… if you know what I mean."

He's killing you. He's killing you, and he's enjoying it.

"I'm not much for meetings and speeches, though. All I want to know is where I can get a bottle of Cognac and a Swedish massage!" He throws his head back and lets out a rich bitch laugh. The rest of the table chuckles sympathetically. Melody beams. Quattro squeezes a lemon slice into his water and takes a smug sip. "I bet our boy Oscar here has been learning massage techniques since grade school. Maybe he could offer us a demonstration."

"He's married," you say between clenched teeth. Nervous laughter from Oscar and Fatima.

"C'mon, I'm just having fun." He turns to Melody. "Who else is going to entertain these old folks, right?" Melody giggles more than she needs to. Quattro angles his shoulders flirtatiously and taps you on the nose with a long finger. "You can't keep me on a leash the _whole_ time," he says, relishing the transfixed, curious stares. "You know I'm a bad boy."

"So, Quattro, has [y/n] told you about our Future Leaders Conference?" Thank the fucking stars for Cheryl. "It's a biannual event for students. Last year, they raised $70k for charity."

"You don't say! Oscar, how much is that in Euros?"

"Actually, Sweden doesn't use—"

You take Quattro aside.

"Please, don't say anything else to Oscar."

"But I love Sweden. They invented Legos and Bjork."

"They didn't invent either of those things."

"He seems like a nice dude, and he's in a strange culture. I'm trying to make him feel more at home."

"I'm telling you, you are past the point of no return with this guy."

He gets angry. "Look, I know I'm out of place here. But you're shutting me down at every turn."

People have gotten up and begun to schmooze. You gesture vaguely behind you. "There are a thousand people here. They're ripe for the picking. Go network with someone who doesn't know me."

He storms off. You're about to chase him, but Sydney is tapping your shoulder. She points in the other direction. "That's Ryan," she mouths. It's obvious who she means. He's the one resplendent in a blue mohair suit, radiating joviality. He's bold and jocular, clapping some other dude on the shoulder. There it is, that famous male camaraderie. Also, Ryan has a ponytail. Somehow you weren't picturing your nemesis with a ponytail, but it's definitely the most evil thing about him. (Should you keep Quattro away from your rival? Or could you deploy him somehow as a shock troop, a kind of sex-flinging berserker?)

Ryan from Cleveland walks up to you and introduces himself. You shoot the shit for about six minutes. He's friendly, full of stories about his upbringing. A simple midwestern boy, raised on pinto beans and cornbread. Now he owns a luxury apartment building in Cleveland. Yes, the whole building. He also has a beach house on Lake Erie, which you should totally visit sometime. He's 34. And here is his fiancé, Liam.

Oh, wow. You didn't peg Ryan as a fellow queer, which serves you right. Turns out the man's engaged—to the most stunning case of boyfriend-twin you've ever seen, except Liam appears to be 10-15 years Ryan’s junior, slightly slimmer and sans ponytail. Liam is on a swimming and diving scholarship at Case Western Reserve. He volunteers for Meals on Wheels every weekend. What's this feeling? Is it your blood running cold? You respond, weakly, that you've been eleven years with the company, and it's nice to see the Cleveland office finally turning things around. Ryan accepts your backhanded compliment with grace. Of course, he has a lot to learn—his current position is so different from his old job at Edward Jones. Well, he has a lot of folks to meet—it was good bumping into you. Let's catch a Browns game the next time you're in Cleveland, OK?

This isn't over yet, Ryan.

* * *

Quattro disappears from the lunch reception. An hour later, he texts you that he's gone on a Jeep tour and won't be back til evening. This is a relief. At least if a Jeep rolls over and crushes him, it'll be someone else's problem.

At 10:30 P.M., you text him from the hotel elevator. There's no response, but a dawning horror as you approach your room to muffled croons of _she too into me, I'm more into money, my hobby's her body, that pussy's my lobby._ You key in. Quattro's shirt is off. His light-up suspenders are glowing neon yellow. His face, hair, and Versace silk shorts are covered in a layer of mountain dirt, like a red spray-tan. He's belting "Ayo" into an empty pint of Patrón while Melody hangs off the side of the bed and lights what's left of a joint. The whole room stinks of booze and weed, and from the six or seven bottles lying around, you realize they've sampled the entire minibar.

"Hey, babe… you made it!" Quattro falls into your arms, spilling tequila down the back of your jacket. "Mel, you dirty slut, did you smoke that entire thing? Pass it here."

"Nah, it's gone… it's fucking gone." Melody is blazed out of her skull.

You seize Quattro by the shoulders. "Get her out of here. Right the fuck now."

"No, no, it's OK—pot's legal here. Did you know? Damn, I gotta make a new one." He shakes you off, tumbles backward onto the bed, and tries to roll a new joint with the papers Melody hands him. He's so fucked up, he's spilling the weed everywhere. Melody can't stop giggling. On the bedside table is a full ounce of marijuana next to the biggest grinder you've ever seen.

"Where did you get all of that?"

"IT'S MY GIANT GRINDER, BITCH."

In half a second you have Melody by the arm and are stuffing her into your own jacket, then punching for a Lyft as you tow her down the corridor.

"We didn't do anything," she slurs, teetering against you as you wait on the curb.

"Listen to me." You have a vice-grip on her arm. "That boy is a whore. If you flatter him, he will infect you with his misery. You have your whole life ahead of you. Never, ever go near him again." She curls her lip at you with teenage irony.

One phone call to Cheryl later, you're back in the room. Quattro is so far gone, he doesn't seem to realize what's happened. If anything, he seems disappointed that you broke up his little soirée. He squirms and cuddles up to you on the bed.

"Quattro, did you touch her?"

"So, you _can_ get jealous…" Is he kidding? It's impossible to tell—his smirk is lopsided and one eye is half-closed.

"She is my colleague's sixteen-year-old daughter! Did you fucking touch her?"

"Nnno."

"What the Christ were you thinking?"

Suddenly he's wistful and even more incoherent. "She reminded me of the twins…"

" _What_ twins?"

"Both of them—!"

Jesus, he's crying. Details are spilling out. His first love was a failed poly arrangement with a brother and sister three years his junior. (Why do teens always _start_ with polyamory? Isn't that hard mode?) It was unclear why they both broke up with him after he was ejected from their eighth grade graduation for wearing no shirt, a cape made of real flowers, and pleather booty shorts with a name written on each ass cheek. He had planned the stunt to finally scuttle his virginity; no dice. The next week he stalked them. What he discovered behind a Buffalo Wild Wings would alter him forever.

"I still remember—" He sobs. "I still remember what Rio said when I asked her why they were doing this. They were _related_ , forgodsakes." He wipes his face. "She just looked at me and said, 'Sorry, dude. Mango habanero sauce makes me super horny.' Then she kept kissing her brother. He flipped me off."

Sounds fucked up. Of course, fucked up people have a way of finding each other.

"Quattro, I need you to understand this. If you go near Melody again, I _will_ cut your balls off."

He smiles sleepily. "That's how I know you love me." He lets out a sigh punctuated by a sharp, uncomfortable hiccup.

"It's got shit to do with you."

"Give me head?"

"You're plastered."

"It's just head."

"Go to sleep."

Quattro opens his mouth to say something else, then turns and vomits all over your laptop.

* * *

You wake to another Arclight family feud on speakerphone.

"Don't fucking start, Quinton, I swear to God. I don't need to defend anything! What about _you_? Why are _you_ hacking my bank account?"

"I didn't 'hack' anything. I'm the account custodian, Quattro—I've explained this."

"Bullshit, I'm a legal adult!"

"That doesn't matter, I'm still the cosigner. And I am certainly not removing myself at the rate things are going."

"How fucking dare you. I'll spend my own damn money as I see fit. I will patronize the shops that I choose—"

"$330 at Kushmart. I phoned their 'establishment' this morning. They went through their paper receipts and said you bought something called an Alaskan Thunder Fuck."

"You know what—"

"No, Quattro, I cannot possibly _imagine_ what. I cannot _imagine_ what you are doing on a so-called business trip that would involve spending over $900 in a day on Jeeps, cannabis, and a GoPro with a custom skin reading _YOLO COLO_."

"You want to talk to my life coach?"

"I don't believe she's really there."

"She is. She's right here in the bed with me, you dickhole."

A troubled silence. Then Quinton hangs up.

The GoPro footage is great, by the way. You check it while Quattro's in the shower. He and Melody are screaming in the back seat as the Jeep fords a stream and a bull moose suddenly appears on the shore. "What is that thing? What _is_ that fucking thing?" Quattro can be heard yelling.

* * *

Sessions begin, and Ryan is annihilating you in the quest to suck dick. Your work is better. Your results are better. Your presentation is blowing his Times New Roman ass out of the water. But as far as leadership is concerned, you're an organized woman with a knack for details and prettying up a Powerpoint. Ryan is a good old boy. He's a winner, even though his numbers are inferior. He smells like success and glory. You smell like the Armani Sport Code sample from last year's company gift basket.

Cheryl approaches you after your presentation. She doesn't want apologies for her daughter's whereabouts yesterday. She wants the real lowdown. Who is Quattro? Why is he with you? You tell Cheryl you've been going through some stuff lately. Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head. You feel terrible.

Fatima congratulates you on your outstanding work. You're a force of nature, she says. They'd be lucky to have you in the executive ranks. But you can hear a preemptive disappointment in her voice. Sydney says it's too early to know how things will turn out. You tell Sydney you don't give a flying fuck—you wouldn't want to relocate anyway, you like your shitty apartment. You can't lie to Sydney, though. As your only queer sister in the group, she can always call your bluff.

It would be the least you could do, she says, to have the fucking dignity to own that you want it. Because we all know you do. That's been your problem for years, [y/n]. You give 110% for the things you don't even want, but when it comes to what really matters, you're chickenshit.

She's right. These three women have been your closest confidants for years, and through passive omission, you've managed to piss them all off in just 24 hours. Meanwhile, you've bent over backwards for the undeserving little cumstain currently impeding traffic with his pacing in front of the buffet.

"I _said_ ," Quattro barks into his cell phone, "the reception is bad up here, so you're just going to have to call later."

"Quattro, _please_ talk to me." It's Trey again. "My therapist says it's important to be open and honest with each other—"

"You wanna know what's going on? You already heard it from Quinton. Me and [y/n], we are _fucking._ " Conversations hush. The room is listening. "She's not my life coach. I met her at a job party and we fucked. That time she came over? She did stuff to me after that."

Trey gasps. "Quattro—!"

"Sorry, am I being too heterosexual for you? Are you _triggered_?"

Why is Quattro's shame instinct so impervious to the public airing of dirty laundry? You'd think it would humiliate him to be the cause of a public disturbance—but, you soon realize, this is what it means to thrive on drama. Your death glare isn't working, even at point-blank range. You catch Quattro’s wrist and order him to hang up the phone or take it outside. He jerks away and keeps pacing. If you don't do some damage control, and quick, your reputation could be in real trouble. And yet—there's a part of you that no longer cares. Part of you just wants to let the motherfucker burn.

"Why did you hide all of this?" Trey has pulled himself together. "You could have told us… we would have supported you."

"Like hell you would have!" Shit, he's really on. "The three of you and your million opinions… Quinton _hates_ me for being straight, he's _always_ held that against me. _You_ would have pitched a fit about the 'problematic' age gap. And Dad? Oh sure, let me tell him about the time I downloaded [y/n]'s keynote speech off Vimeo and then jerked off to it. I'm sure he would have gotten a good laugh out of that!"

You can actually hear Vetrix laughing in the background. Trey's phone must be on speaker, too. Someone in the reception room claps in honor of your legendary speech.

"Well, laugh all you want, Dad! This is one thing that's for me and me only! You can't take it away from me, no matter what you do!"

"You've always had a mind of your own, Quattro." Vetrix has taken the phone. "This is nothing new."

"It _is_ fucking new, Dad, because [y/n] and I are soulmates and we're gonna be together FOREVER _._ "

You've given up. You let Quattro go off. Even Ryan and his perfect boyfriend are watching.

"Son, I can't stop you. But there's one thing I can tell you: first, last, and always, you're an Arclight. No woman will ever change that."

"Screw you, Dad. I hope puberty _wrecks_ you." He hangs up in a huff.

"Excuse me…" Someone is pushing past you. It's Ryan's boyfriend. He waves at Quattro. "Did I hear 'Arclight?' Quattro Arclight?"

"That's me!" Quattro flips his personality so fast, it gives you nausea. "What can I do for a lucky fan?"

"Remember me? It's Liam Shaw, from Brookfield West! Boy, you've lost weight!"

Quattro's expression changes, and you can tell something is horribly, horribly wrong.

"Liam," he finally says. "It's been so long."

"I'll say!" Liam beckons Ryan over. "Can you believe I'm engaged? Babe, this is Quattro Arclight. We went to the same middle school." He laughs. "I can't believe it."

"This is really a surprise," Quattro says. His tone is inscrutable. His smile is enormous. You can count nearly every one of his alabaster-white teeth.

"Those were such good times, dude." Liam claps him on the shoulder, and Quattro visibly flinches. Despite everything that's happened, you instinctively move in to protect him.

"Prior acquaintances?" you ask.

Liam is glowing. "We had boys' P.E. together, first period. I was in eighth grade, he was in seventh. Man, remember when Mr. Kelly took a punt to the nose? Or when that kid sprained his ankle on the shuttle run? Wait, who was the loser who always got a hard-on during aerobics videos?"

"Those are fond memories." To a bystander, Quattro might sound a little worn out. You can tell he's breaking apart.

"You're telling me! Hey, have you kept in touch with any of the others? John B, Higgsy, Mack-Mack… I haven't heard from those guys in ages."

"I'm sure they're unclogging the finest toilets as we speak."

"Dude, you're killing me!" Liam wipes his eyes. "God. You always were a stitch."

"Well, you did laugh at me. All the time."

"I'll never forget that failed jump… what was it called again? The Arcfli—"

With no warning, Quattro hits him square in the mouth. A few bystanders yelp in shock. Liam's tortoiseshell Ray-Bans fly off his face. Before they hit the ground, Quattro lands more two punches to the gut. Liam stumbles and thrashes, trying to escape, but Quattro sticks to him like a ten-year curse. Nobody can separate them.

"This is for your bullshit!" Quattro is shrieking as he claws, kicks, and elbows Liam. He's a cyclone of rage. " _This_ is for calling me ' _gordito_ ' and shoving me in the ravine! _This_ is for the time you told me put two donuts up my ass for winter! I'm famous now, bitch! You are nothing! _You are nothing!_ "

It's apparently sheer fury that's allowing Quattro’s 5-foot-7-inch, 130-pound ass to get the better of a 6-foot conditioned swimmer—but it's still so surreal, most people aren't sure how to respond. Except for Ryan—he joins the fray with no hesitation. He tries to put Quattro in a chokehold. Quattro bites his arm. Ryan screams. There's blood on his shirt cuff. The second you see that blood, something primal happens. A purpose ignites inside you. All those nights of boxing practice, the self-defense classes, the Brazilian jiu-jitsu—you suddenly understand, with cosmic clarity, that this what every one of those moments was leading up to. Quattro may be a bitch from hell, but he's _your_ bitch, and you'll be damned before you stand by and watch a man take your job.

You get in there. You fuck shit up. Within seconds, you have Ryan pushed to the side and Quattro gasping on the floor in a cross collar choke. You lean down and whisper " _we are leaving_ " in his ear. He struggles again, so you put more pressure on his windpipe. Then Liam kicks him. Oh, hell no. You release Quattro and stand eye-to-eye with Liam. Quattro sits up, looking like he wants to go for round two, but you tell him to stay the fuck down. His jacket has been ripped at the shoulder. His bow tie is lying on the ground, crumpled underfoot next to a lock of hair. He looks like a dog who's just pissed on the rug, only instead of piss, it's blood everywhere, and whose blood is anyone's guess.

* * *

Now you're walking back to the hotel. It's 2:45 in the afternoon and your life is over. It's completely done. You can stick a fork in it. Quattro shuffles behind you on the sidewalk. You've never seen him so morose.

"That shithead and his friends used to call me a fag and a cockmuncher. He'd wave his dick at me every day in the locker room." He balls his fists. "And now _he's_ gay? And he's _happy_? And I'm supposed to just accept that?"

"Sometimes that's how it goes." You've been wanting to kill someone for years; the best you'll get is breaking up a fight for the guy who's going to get the promotion.

Quattro stops walking and stares at his shoes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stack of cards. He hands it to you. You squint at him.

He smiles weakly. "It's my deck."

What are you supposed to do with this?

"I want you to have it. Remember me, OK?"

You tell him he can stage a breakup with you if it makes him feel better, but you're not driving him to the airport.

He seems miffed. "I'm not talking about our inevitable breakup. I'm past the point, [y/n]. I can't do this anymore." In one leap, he's on the railing next to the walkway. You're standing on an overpass. Over the edge, it's a thirty-foot drop to the bustling interstate.

"Quattro, get down from there!"

"Don't come near me! I'll jump!"

"You coward! You piece of shit!"

"I'LL FUCKING KILL MYSELF!"

"DON'T YOU DARE, YOU LITTLE BITCH—" and in one move, you hurl his cards over your shoulder. They scatter like a flock of birds in front of oncoming traffic.

With a sustained " _NOOOO,_ " Quattro pivots from the railing and lunges after his cards, clearing the sidewalk in a single bound and landing with a sickening thud on the hood of a Chevy Tahoe doing 40 miles per hour.

* * *

The regular beeps of the heart monitor punctuate a chilly silence between you and Quattro. He sighs heavily, wincing at the pain of four cracked ribs.

"Take out the IV," he says.

You give him a look.

"Just do it. Take it out and let me die."

You reach over and pull the IV from his arm. A thin spout of blood issues. Quattro looks at you. You look at him. The blood continues to spurt. It's awkward. After a moment, a nurse appears, shakes her head with pity, and re-inserts the needle.

Quattro sniffs. "I want to bleed out," he says. "Until I'm a dried husk."

"Join the club," you say. "But no one's husking it today."

"Why shouldn't I? I'm a colossal fuckup."

You hesitate, then squeeze his hand. "That's exactly why. You can't let it end like this. You have to keep living."

A long, ugly sob, cut off by "ow-ow-ow-ow."

You sigh. "You know we can't keep doing this, kid."

"Doing what?"

"This."

"But [y/n]…" Those are real tears, fuck. "I'm in love with you."

"You don't know the first thing about me."

"That's not true—!"

"I'm not a real person," you say. "I'm a blank slate. A fantasy vessel. You're in love with whatever you've made me out to be." You flatten your lips. "Whatever you needed me to be, I guess."

Quattro thinks about this. "Then I need you to fuck me," he says. "One last time. For all time."

You know what? You can still get one good thing out of this weekend, damnit. But you'll have to get creative. The room's server cabinet is locked with a keypad. You punch in the four-digit room number and it opens. There's surgical gel inside. You take a pair of nitrile gloves from the wall dispenser and pull the curtain in front of the bed. You pull the sheets off of Quattro, don one of the gloves, slather on the gel, and reach under his hospital gown.

"Does a puppet enjoy having a hand up its ass?" you ask him, rubbing his neck.

"Watch the clavicle, watch the clavicle—"

"Shit, sorry—"

"Ow, ow, ow—"

You get a few fingers inside him. He moans loudly. You stop, thinking you've hurt him. He tells you to continue. You can't believe he's enjoying this, but maybe the codeine is really kicking in. It's amazing he didn't have a pulmonary contusion. His upper body is covered in tubes and bandages. One huge purple bruise forms a track down his entire right arm. His face got scraped up, too—on the side that was already scarred, which is maybe the only silver lining here.

He takes shallow breaths, trying not to put pressure on his ribs, and remarks that he wishes you had something bigger than your fingers to put in him. You reach for the second glove and the TV remote lying on the bed tray. You tell him you are going to stick the TV remote in his ass. His face lights up, the greedy little slut. You wrap the round end of the remote in the glove and coat it. You guide it inside him with one hand and stroke his cock with the other. You press kisses against his inner thighs. He whines with pleasure. Somewhere a button gets pressed, and the TV comes to life like an unwelcome gregarious guest. You fuck Quattro with the remote as the TV advises you to call your doctor if you experience an erection lasting longer than four hours, then welcomes you back to small-claims court, which is where you're about to be because here is Quinton oh my fucking god.

Quattro explodes, "Quint— _ow!_ " as you extricate yourself from his hospital gown. Caught red-handed. Quinton doesn't say anything. Is he shocked or stoic? You can't read him at all.

"Quattro!" Trey is bringing up the rear with Vetrix. "We're here! We came as fast as we…" He stops in his tracks just in time to see you extract a blue nitrile implement from his brother's most delicate regions. "Oh… gosh."

"If you'd only come as fast as they did," you murmur to Quattro.

He scowls. "Well, aren't _you_ looking alluring, Quinton… did you remember to put a jade egg in your vagina this morning?"

Quinton recovers fast. "Is that what the two of you were doing? I should have known I was witnessing a medical procedure."

"You should try it. I hear your skin clears up and everything."

"I don't partake in the wellness-industrial complex."

"Oh, but the military, that's another story! Just had to fill up the old H3 seven or eight times, and you got here in a jiff! Right, Trey?"

Between the cissexist insults and the allusions to non-renewable energy, Trey looks like he's about to cry. You always feel bad for this kid. He's the only one of the bunch with a chance at being a decent person, but he's not armed for these scenarios.

"Well… this is awkward." And it is, but somehow any time Vetrix says anything at all in his gremlin voice, it gets ten times more awkward.

"I want all of you out of here. Right now." Quattro props himself on his elbows. The effect isn't very threatening.

"Why should we leave?" Vetrix asks. "We just got off the plane."

"I think _she_ should leave," Quinton says.

Trey looks embarrassed. "We _are_ family…"

" _I_ get to decide who visits me, and right now I don't want to see any of you! _Ow!_ "

But you're not going to stick around for this, because you've just gotten a very important text. You peck Quattro on the lips. "Bye, bitch," you say softly. "You know where to find me. For now."

"[Y/n], wait!"

"Don't think you can fly the coop without a proper explanation," Quinton shouts as you duck out the door. "The Arclight family doesn't take kindly to slights! There _will_ be a restraining order!" You don't look back.

* * *

Cheryl is waiting for you at Applebee's.

"Way to go, boss," she says.

You sit down and order some appetizers. You apologize again for what happened to her daughter last night.

"Melody's a kid," she says. "Kids are horrible, then they grow up."

"I thought you and the others had had it with me."

"Over your mid-life crisis? Please," Sydney chimes in, arriving with Fatima. "You know rule number one in this business… never let a man come between two women."

"First, last, and always: you're a bitch."

Fatima recounts the whole story. The rest of leadership was indeed leaning toward Ryan from Cleveland. But she pressed hard for you, and Sydney and Cheryl spoke independently with higher-ups to bolster your case. In the end, you sold them. Girl power saved the day.

"And there was one more thing," Fatima says. "Actually, it seemed to be the clincher. After this went out, things were pretty much sewn up."

She pulls out her tablet. The email was circulated among the leaders just six hours ago. It praises you for showing strength and resolve in the physical scuffle this afternoon—for taking quick steps to settle what was termed "a homosexual dispute." Something which, one respondent affirmed, had no place "in the ranks."

You can't fucking believe this.

You take a minute to absorb and process it.

Four queers beat the crap out of each other while mostly straight people watched. You alone emerged morally unsullied because a group of straight men assumed you were straight and were quashing the gays' drama. This windfall of a homophobic misunderstanding just trumped institutionalized sexism to make your entire career.

You can't fucking believe this.

"We did it, girls."

_Did_ we?

* * *

So long, trash-fire-waiting-to-happen. Your one-bedroom apartment is packed into a U-Haul. Your co-workers bid you farewell yesterday. As you gaze up at the sun-kissed skyline of the city where you've spent the last eleven years of your life, you can't help but not give a shit about any of it. Whatever nonsense is coming from here on out—bring it on. You're a bitch who can handle it.

You and Quattro eat quietly at the usual restaurant.

"You have to FaceTime me," he says.

You tell him you're not going to FaceTime him.

"You have to call, then. This is your ringtone." It's the smooth chorus of "Break You Down" by Kamaiyah.

You tell him you're not calling him, either.

"Write me a fucking letter, I don't care!" He bangs a fist on the table. "You're not seriously cutting me out of your life, are you?"

You sip your drink. "You don't need me now. You've got Ryan." Turns out Ryan's sister worked for a modeling agency that was more than happy to retain Quattro. Turns out, once you were regional exec, Ryan was full of ideas that could help your little protégé.

"I have no peace anymore. Work takes up all my time, and now that Quinton knows I put things in my ass, he never lets me hear the end of it. Please, I _need_ emotional support. Maybe we could fuck on cam once in a while?"

"You'll be fine, kid."

You ask for the check.

Quattro sulks.  "If you're not careful, I'll run off and date somebody younger."

"That's exactly what I hope will happen."

"You're such a stick in the mud. I don't know why I put up with you."

You pay the check. You kiss Quattro's cheek and hop in your U-Haul. You'll call him. Eventually. Just to keep in touch, unless you feel like something more. But the bar's high—your time's worth 74% more than it used to be.

"You didn't suck my dick in a pool," Quattro is yelling as you start up the engine. "You said you would do that."

You'll probably suck his dick in a pool. For now, fade out to Fleetwood Mac.

**Author's Note:**

> [Further reading](https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/if-women-wrote-men-the-way-men-write-women), if desired.  
> [A mixtape](http://suan.fm/mix/2KAvwFa) of music referenced or appearing in this story.


End file.
